


Crossing the Border

by LCWells



Series: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues [5]
Category: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: When Peter Caine was being hunted by U.S. Marshal Jim Garrison, his friend and co-worker computer guru, Kermit Griffin, came to his rescue.It wasn't the first time Griffin and Garrison had crossed paths. It had all started with a shipment of guns and a rescue in Mexico.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story two decades ago. Revisiting it was an eye-opener. I had remembered it fondly; now I see I remembered the bones of it fondly - the rest needed a good deal of updating. I also had to evict a lot of adverbs. 
> 
> Author’s note from 1997: I would like to thank A.M. for all the help she gave me in refining and editing Crossing the Border. I wouldn’t have completed it without her.

As Detective Kermit Griffin watched Peter Caine walk away into the shadows of the rooftop, he wished there was more that he could do for him. Caine was a good, honest cop, unjustly framed by someone unknown. Personally, and professionally, Griffin had known Caine for too many ears to think the man would wait for someone else to find the killer of his ex-girlfriend. Peter had a strong sense of loyalty that had saved Griffin’s life in the past; now Griffin had a chance to pay him back by distracting for ten minutes the U.S. Marshal Jim Garrison who was leading Caine’s manhunt. 

Griffin knew Garrison so much better than Caine suspected. Their first run-in had been long before Griffin joined the 101st Precinct. Jim Garrison, the man hunter, was the man who Griffin had frustrated by running away to the big city and the protection of Captain Paul Blaisdell. 

*** 

1989

 

“So, your guns, Mr. Griffin, they are satisfactory?” The loadmaster, Pablo Enrico asked around the wad of smokeless tobacco in his cheek. Close by was a bucket with stains around it from where he missed when spitting. He wore a new tee shirt proclaiming “Nacogdoches Heritage Festival 1989” tucked into worn corduroy pants, and battered leather boots. In his mid-fifties, he looked younger, and only the gray in his hair betrayed his years. 

The building was dimly lit by the hot sunshine coming in through upper windows. Dock workers and loaders drove past the mostly-closed door, shouting orders as they loaded the containers into the huge ships moored at the Port of Brownsville, Texas. It was a gateway for moving cargo from Mexico and the United States. 

The slender, dark-haired man, wearing black jeans, matching tee shirt and a leather jacket placed the submachine gun back into the straw inside the box. His eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective wraparound shades, Griffin nodded. “They look fine. As the manufacturer promised, one hundred and fifty submachine guns with enough ammunition to take out a presidential guard.”

“Only if you wish El Presidente to be in small pieces when you are done,” Enrico replied knowingly. 

“They won’t be used against my president,” Griffin replied callously, holding out his hand for the clipboard that Enrico held against his chest. “And this is a legal shipment, no less. I gave you the paperwork from the Feds. Where do I sign?”

“Here, here and here.” Enrico pointed to the forms. 

“These are all the permits?” Griffin asked, flipping through several sheets of paper, “Usually there are more pages—“

“The U.S. government has cut out the paperwork, Mr. Griffin,” Enrico beamed. “It is part of the, what do you call it, the Paperwork Reduction Act!”

“About the best thing that’s happened this year.”

“Yes, but not as good as it used to be,” Enrico said in a familiar tone. “Remember when we sent those boxes to Salvador – “ 

Griffin held up his hand in protest, looking over his shoulder at a young man standing against the wall. “Let’s not talk about the past with company here, Enrico! Everything we did in the last couple of years has to be forgotten, compadre.”

“Forgotten? Is what you do now so different, working now for yourself? The governments in Nicaragua, El Salvador, they still need guns. We could make a lot of money – “

Griffin shook his head, stopping him. “Those days are long gone. Forget them. Our government has changed its policies—“

“There are still mercenaries in Latin America who will buy anything you sell,” Enrico said hopefully. He squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice towards the door. It missed. “They know who you are, Mr. Griffin. Your reputation is bigger than… bigger than the Presidente!”

“I know. That worries me,” Griffin replied looking around the warehouse. “It’s gotten too high.”

“How many years you been doing it, Mr. Griffin? Being a mercenary?” Enrico asked, watching him shrewdly. 

“Since the Jurassic era,” Griffin replied with a tone of finality in his voice. “By the way, who is that boy?”

“I must introduce you!” Enrico beckoned. “Juan! Come over here.” 

The lithe swarthy young man with dark eyes was already heading for them, his face alight with curiosity. 

“Mr. Griffin, this is Juan Perez. He is my nephew up from Mexico.” 

Juan held out his hand eagerly. 

Griffin didn’t respond for a second studying him from behind his dark glasses, then reached out reservedly, his face expressionless. “Glad to meet you.”

Too late. The young man had withdrawn his hand angrily, his skin flushing a deep red. His back stiffened and he stepped back, thrusting his fists in his jacket. 

Stupid gringo, Enrico thought. Now Juan would be annoyed and rightfully so. Griffin knows better than this. Why is he being a problem? “My Juan has come to work for me,” Enrico boasted, clapping him on the shoulder. “He lives with me in the new house.”

“What did you do before you came up here?” Griffin inquired. 

The young man shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that. I was a federale for a time, but I decided to hang out here instead.” 

Part of the Mexican police force? Griffin thought, startled. What the hell was the boy doing working for his uncle on the docks? “Police work didn’t agree with you?”

“I want to get rich,” Juan said uncompromisingly. “There is no money in police work.”

“So, you work for me, eh, to get rich? There were too many regulations, and not enough cash in Mexico, eh?” Enrico joshed him, giving him an affectionate cuff. “Now, it is just work, work, work. 

“I get back to work now,” Juan said with a tiny nod at Griffin. He walked back to the boxes, his body stiff with anger. 

“A hot-blooded young man,” Griffin observed. 

“Si. Aren’t they all?” Enrico shrugged. “He works well, and eats like a horse. The ice box, it is always empty.”

“He looks well-fed,” Griffin said reflectively, his eyes studying the boy. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned back to Enrico. “So, you have the permits.”

‘The containers go onto the boat as soon as the winch is repaired, maybe in an hour or two. They should arrive in… seven days, maybe eight days, down in Trinidad.”

“Good. The buyer’s got a shipper down there.”

“It is not…how you say it? Not your responsibility then?” Enrico asked, taking back the clipboard. 

“My responsibility ended when your boy nails on the top,” Griffin said with a shrug. “I’m quality control on this job.”

“That is indeed my boy,” Enrico said with a touch of pride. “Do not worry, Mr. Griffin. It goes out tonight. Relax. I will take care of it. Haven’t I always?”

Griffin flashed a smile. “You have indeed. I missed you when you were on vacation to that festival.” He waved to the emblazoned shirt.

Enrico spat another mouthful of tobacco juice. “So did the harbor master, Martin. You’d think that I was gone a month instead of a week. I had to start to pack.”

“You’re moving?”

“Si, to a new house.” Enrico noted Griffin’s frown. “I will tell you the address and phone number when I was certain of it. Soon.”

“Make sure it’s soon,” Griffin grumbled. “I may have other work for you shortly.”

“I will be in touch,” Enrico promised, wondering why Griffin was being terser than normal. It couldn’t be the gun shipment. This was not the first time Griffin had shipments out. In fact, this was the smallest in years. 

“Then I’ll leave it up to you,” Griffin said, his tone shifting to preoccupied. He looked around and gave an unconscious sigh.

“What is it, Mr. Griffin?” Enrico asked boldly.

Griffin glanced at Juan, then at the door. “I’m just restless, Enrico. See you later.”

“Adios.” Enrico watched Griffin walk out into the doc area, and knew there had to be more than just restlessness. Were the guns the problem? He saw Juan staring out the door, and thought that Griffin had handed that badly. His nephew would be out for blood after Griffin’s snub, and Enrico didn’t think the gringo even realized it. 

He’d have to talk to his nephew. Juan didn’t know what he was dealing with in Griffin either. Mercenaries who had lasted as long as Kermit Griffin were more dangerous than rattlesnakes. He wasn’t being his normal self either; that made him doubly dangerous. 

Enrico shrugged fatalistically, and headed back to the boxes. He had to finish with them before they left on the boat.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, Griffin studied the paper in his hand by the light of his computer. There were two messages; one from Trinidad, through Western Union, stating that the shipment had never arrived, and the other one in French was now being translated by his computer. 

The computer chinked, then a red light flashed as the hard drive whirred. Finally finished. Up came words on the screen. Without even looking at it, Griffin hit the print key. Seconds later, he had the unencrypted message in his hand. 

Minette? She was the one who had put him in touch with the gun buyer, a Daniel Umbagi of the Central African Republic. She had more pretty fingers involved in the African mercenary market than was good for her. 

He had checked out Umbagi, though he was pretty sure that the man was reputable. He was a businessman in Bangui, and well-connected with the military there. In 1981, after a number of coups and a dictator who rivaled Uganda’s Idi Amin in viciousness, the Central African Republic was a morass of poverty where only coffee, cotton, timber and illicit diamond smuggling provided income. According to Griffin’s research, Umbagi had plans to upset the balance of power, and take control, but he needed weapons to do it, not bricks. It had been Griffin’s reputation as a reliable mercenary that brought Umbagi to Griffin’s doorstep. 

Which made the message from Paris even more disturbing. Translated from the French, it said. “Shipment of bricks arrived Trinidad. Not acceptable. Transfer of funds stopped immediately. Umbagi furious, threatening. Shipment must be in CAE by August 1st, or major trouble. What happened, Shades? Talk to me. Minette.”

Frowning, Griffin turned and fed both sheets into the paper shredder he kept by his desk. 

He remembered Enrico’s promise that day on the docks. What happened? The other man had been reliable for the last four years for all those trips to Nicaragua and El Salvador. These guns weren’t worth as much as he would have gotten by stealing an earlier shipment. Of course, there was the small point that before the stealing then had been from the U.S. government; now they were just from a private business deal. But it doesn’t make sense. Enrico wasn’t a thief. 

Upstairs, he heard the sound of the thumping feet, and loud music started. He approved of the fact that it was classical, but the sound of helpless laughter and dancing reached his ears even through the ceiling. 

He smiled, his mood lightening. “Ten decibels louder and I complain to the landlord,” he murmured. The landlord actually lived in San Jose but he could get in touch with the management office if he needed to complain about the neighbors. 

The four-plex was shared by a scholar, currently in Montana hunting dinosaur remains, and a pair of female dancers who lived upstairs. He liked the owners of the thumping feet. Patricia Katinka and Tina Grant were with the local ballet, and outside of performances, eked out their living teaching children the basics of dance. There was an empty apartment opposite the girls. 

From the sound of the thumping, they were planning for one of their regular evening parties. Soon, he’d smell barbecuing from the deck that shaded his backyard, and more laughter. They might even sing. It was like having a civilized sorority living upstairs. 

“I’d better talk to Enrico,” he said aloud, and put the keyboard to one side. “Darn. I don’t have his new number here.” 

His crowded den had the computer and printer, and a table where a scanner, and other esoteric computer parts, were neatly arranged. A tower bookcase held volumes on shipping, international politics, a dictionary and, incongruously, several books on antiquities.

He walked through the living room with its leather couch facing the unused giant-sized television, with two matching tubular chairs flanking it, and a glass-topped coffee table that was polished to a mirror-reflection. The stereo setup saw discreetly against one wall with compact discs scattered on the top. A tall ficus next to the veranda windows desperately reached for the minimal light that came through the deck above. There was an anonymous painting of a pastoral scene on one wall, a Mardi Gras mask on another, and the hardwood floors were covered with Afghan scatter rugs. 

In his bedroom, he moussed, then brushed his hair back. Pulling off his sweatshirt, he put on a royal blue tee shirt that fit snugly over his fit body and then picked up a jacket. The modern fashion of an untailored jacket over a dark tee suited him, he thought with a touch of vanity. Picking up a pair of small-framed dark glasses, he put them on, and nodded at his reflection in the mirror. 

I look like an undercover agent for the FBI, he thought. That should impress Enrico. Actually, it would make him laugh uncontrollably. They had worked on too many projects for Enrico to be impressed by Griffin’s clothing. 

He grinned ruefully. It wasn’t Enrico who he was dressed for. Can’t let the girls down even if all I do is wave, he thought with a wry grin. 

He stepped out the front door of his apartment, and felt the humidity sink into his pores. The smell of salt air fought with pollution, and the sun blazed overhead burning the nearby grass to a faded brown. 

A clatter of footsteps came down the stairs and he turned, his hand going to where he usually would have a gun. He covered the motion with a hitch at his belt when the saw the long blond braid and light body of Tina who was bouncing down the stairs. She wore a leotard and tights, with a large colorful scarf tied around her waist as a skirt. It clung to every minor curve of her dancer’s body. 

“Mr. Griffin!” she called. 

“Ms. Grant.”

She blushed slightly. “Tina, remember?”

“That’s right. How’s the computer?” The girl thought he was a computer salesman, and he played along with it. He’d shown her how to set it up last week. 

“It’s fine, it’s working just great. Listen, about what happened…” she hesitated uncertainly. 

He hid a grin at her obvious discomfort. It wasn’t nice picking on people who didn’t understand exactly what they were doing. “I understand. How’s Rob doing?”

“Rob? Rob, who – oh, my boyfriend!” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s going on tour instead of staying with the company. Stupid idiot!”

Leaving you all alone? Griffin debated whether he should make another attempt at seduction then regretfully put it aside. She hadn’t picked up on his hints until too late, the night he set up the computer, then turned him down flatly. He withdrew with good grace, and more than a touch of amusement. Tina wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship, and it was a complication that he didn’t need right now. Besides, she wouldn’t leave at dawn like most of his other girl friends. 

“Anyway, I’d like to thank you again for helping me. Are you coming to the party?” she asked wistfully, staring at him with her pansy-brown eyes. 

She really doesn’t understand yet. Give her a year and a couple of broken hearts, then she’ll understand what she’s doing, Griffin thought, a grin escaping his lips. “I’ve got a meeting. How long will it last? Stupid question. It would last all night. They always had. 

She confirmed his last thought. “Oh, hours. It’s the last party before we start the Swan Lake run. You will come up?”

He succumbed. “I’ll try and make it back in an hour or so.”

She startled him by darting up and giving him an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “See you later then. Frankie!” She waved at someone behind him, and griffin turned.

A young man, a bronze Adonis, in wildflower-patterned Bermuda shorts and a clashing turquoise shirt, grinned as he lugged a cooler toward the stairs that led to the girls’ apartment. “Coming up to the party?” he called. 

“Maybe later,” Griffin replied with a smile. He shook his head ruefully as he headed for the Camaro parked at the curb. 

He felt very old. When he was that age, he was leading mercenaries into Afghanistan. Ah, well, different strokes for different folks. Kids in 1989 had a whole different set of priorities than he had. 

Kids… Enrico’s nephew. That was right. There had been at least one more person on the docks who knew exactly what was in those boxes. Griffin climbed inside the Camaro, started it and flicked on the air-conditioning. The hot sun had baked the light-colored interior into a furnace, and the wheel burned his fingers. It was almost as hot as the last trip he taken to Mexico when the car had broken down in… where was it? What trip was that? He couldn’t remember. There had been too many trips. What was the connection between the nephew and Mexico. Oh, yeah, the kid had been a cop down there. He wouldn’t steal guns if he was a cop. The kid was probably okay. 

It was almost an hour’s drive to the docks, more than enough time for him to consider everything that could have happened to the shipment. Minette spoke of major trouble. That was the truth. If Umbagi talked to the French who still had a large military base in the CAE, then Griffin would be in trouble with some very powerful people. It was faintly possible that Umbagi might also have been buying weapons for his own government, instead of planning a coup, and then Griffin was in even more trouble. The CAE might complain to the U.S. government, and Griffin would have domestic problems. His paper work had allowed the guns to go to a dealer in Trinidad, no further. 

Not to mention the danger to Minette in Paris on whose life was on the line, as well as her reputation. She wasn’t a “field mercenary;” her contacts were business and social, and while she was reasonably athletic, she couldn’t protect herself if Umbagi contracted a hit. She would have to pull in other help, someone to protect her back, and that would be Griffin’s fault. He would pay for it one way or another. 

His reputation was going to be shot if Umbagi went public.

Griffin knew more than a handful of mercenaries who would take on the challenge of killing for a good price like the rest of the gun payment. 

August 1st, eh? That gives me two weeks to get the guns over there. 

He parked outside the chain fence that separated the wharf from the loading areas. A Quonset house had a sign on the door that said HARBOR MASTER. Seagulls cawed as they swooped over the dock, diving for garbage in the filthy water or perching on the roof of the huge warehouse. In the distance, a trawler sailed down the canal leading to the Gulf of Mexico. 

Entering the office, he found a pot-bellied man seated by the window, sweat making enormous rings under his armpits. He was fiddling with papers on his desk. A small fan was failing miserably in the stuffy heat. 

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a surly tone. His ice-filled glass of Coke was leaving a puddle of condensation on a pile of papers. The nameplate on the desk identified him as Paul Martin. The phone ran, and without a pause, Martin picked it up, and slammed the receiver down. 

Griffin automatically checked for danger. One exit or entrance behind him. The room was crowded by three huge file cabinets along one side, a couple of dingy and battered metal chairs in front of the fake wood desk, and a table crowded with a computer, a printer and a fax machine.

“I need to talk to Pablo Enrico.”

“Humph.” Martin grunted and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked ominously as he tilted. “Enrico hasn’t been here for a week. Checked out last Thursday and didn’t come back in. I’ve had to pull in Billy to ramrod his crew.”

“What?” Griffin said, disturbed. The back of neck tensed. “He hasn’t shown up for that long? Did you check his house?”

“What’s he to you?” Martin stared at him inquisitively. 

“Old friend. Have you got a contact number?

“You’re his old friend. Don’t you?” Martin snarled. “Hell, I even sent a guy to his new house but there’s no one there.”

“I thought his nephew was up here.”

Martin let out a raspberry, and reached for his glass of cola. He took a long sip, then wiped his wet hand over his face. “Damned boy left as well. He wasn’t worth the time of day anyway. Always driving that truck of his around as if he was some kind of shipper, and not arriving on time once.”

“The boy’s name was…”

“Juan Perez. From over near Kabima.”

“Got an address on Perez?” Griffin asked. 

Martin’s eyebrows went up. “You planning on finding him?”

“I have to find either Enrico or the boy. Either of them can tell me what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

Griffin sat down in one of the chairs, and crossed his legs. “I sent a shipment out earlier this month. My contact says it never arrived.”

“Enrico was in charge of it? Strange.” For a moment, Martin looked puzzled. “He was reliable up to this week. Hell, I can tell you if we loaded boxes on the boat.” He stood up and fiddled with one of the file cabinets. “What the name on the shipment?”

“Griffin. I signed off on the permits.”

“Gartnerson, Gaithers, Griffin.” Martin pulled it out. “You got any identification?”

“Bit late to be asking, eh?” Griffin asked dryly. 

“Never too late,” Martin growled. 

Griffin smiled thinly, and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Here.”

Martin surveyed the driver’s license for a second, then handed it back. “Nice picture.”

“Thanks.” Griffin held out his hand for the file. Martin handed it to him and Griffin flipped it open. 

Nothing. There was nothing here that he hadn’t seen before.

“What happened to my boxes?” Griffin asked to the air.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Griffin flicked shut the file and handed it back. “Got the address on Enrico?”

“Yeah, but I told you, he’s not there anymore. I sent one of his buddies out, someone who had a key, and he said Enrico was gone.”

“The address?” Griffin asked politely. 

Sullenly, Martin scrawled an address and phone number on a piece of paper, and handed it over. 

“Thanks.” Griffin let the door slam behind him. 

Outside, several puffy clouds were casting shadows over the corrugated iron roof of the warehouse. Some of the workmen were sitting on the edge of the dock eating lunch, while gulls hovered nearby. One daring bird snatched a sandwich, and nearly sent the man into the water. He cursed, and shook his fist at the bird who had landed on a post, and was swallowing the bread and jam. 

So, on to Enrico’s. He wasn’t sure what use it would be to go there, since if Martin was right, Enrico was gone, but it was a start. He opened the door to the Camaro and let the heat pour out as he debated. 

The decision was taken away from him. Two cars came out of nowhere, one a dark gray Cadillac, and the other, a blue Chevrolet, blocking him from driving away. He leaned on the Camaro’s top and waited, his back stiffening. 

To men stepped from the Chevrolet, one holding out a badge in the air. “Mr. Kermit Griffin?” he asked. 

“Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Warren, DEA. May I speak with you?” The man folded up his badge and put it into the breast pocket of his tan suit. He was maybe forty, bulky in the torso and neck. His silver hair was thick on top. His skin was deeply tanned. 

The Drug Enforcement Agency? What were the Feds doing here? He knew other DEA men and they knew him, at least by reputation. What was going on? Griffin licked his lips, then knew he shouldn’t have when the man’s eyes narrowed. “Sure. Where are we going?”

Both man exchanged glances, then the other man shrugged, putting his palms up, leaving the choice to Warren. “Our office downtown.”

“Are you arresting me?” Griffin asked calmly, though under his jacket he was starting to sweat. 

“Why would we do that?’ the other man replied with a broad Texas accent. He stood to one side, so as not to be between Warren and Griffin. 

“You tell me,” Griffin replied sharply, meeting the man’s gaze. The challenge lay between them and neither backed own.

“We’d like your assistance,” Warren intervened, “in a matter of importance.” 

“Let me ride with you, Mr. Griffin,” the Texan requested, making it a command, coming forward with his hand out. “I’m Jim Garrison, U.S. Marshal Service.” 

Griffin realized one way or the other he was going downtown to talk with them, either in their car or by having a passenger. If the marshal rode with him, he’d have the Camaro at the end of interview. “Get inside. Hope you don’t mind the heat. The air conditioning’s shot,” he lied.

Garrison shrugged. “I won’t melt.” He climbed inside, his large build making the seat seem small. The hat on his head brushed the ceiling. He looked like a rancher in his tailored suit, discreet blue tie, and a ten-gallon Stetson hat. 

Griffin waited until Warren moved his car, then backed out. The trio of cars drove downtown to the Federal Building. 

Griffin was very aware that Garrison was studying him closely the entire trip. He could feel sweat soaking his shirt. Even after years as a mercenary, he was uncomfortable when facing the police or government agents, no matter what country. Griffin specialized in not attracting their attention. What the hell was going on? He hadn’t done anything wrong…was it about the shipment? That was the only outstanding job at the moment. Umbagi’s guns were an albatross around his neck dragging him down. 

Garrison finally spoke when they turned into the parking lot of the Federal building. “Okay, go to the left.” They stopped at a turnstile and took the ticket, which Griffin put in his pocket, then drove on. 

“Private parking?”

“Only the best,” Garrison replied. “Over there.”

Griffin obeyed and pulled into the slot opposite the elevators. “What’s this about?” he finally asked, locking the car door behind him.

“You’ll find out upstairs.”

They rode to the fourth floor and walked down an anonymous hallway to an office that had Warren’s name on the door. As rooms went, it was fairly comfortable with well-padded chairs, and no mesh over the windows. On the wooden desk was a fold-out frame with pictures of Warren, his wife and three children, and their cocker spaniel. Behind the desk, a computer monitor and keyboard sat on a credenza. There were stacks of paper next to it, and a box that exhorted readers to “Recycle!” 

To one side was a separate desk for Garrison from the folders labeled, “U.S. Marshal Service, and the double-lined phone. It was a tight fit. 

Griffin’s internal alarms went off loudly. This wasn’t an interrogation room. He’d been in too many of the psychologically unnerving rooms with their painted cinderblock walls and hard chairs. Whatever was going on the agents weren’t tipping their hands. 

He flicked a glance at Garrison who was watching him. “Nice office.”

“We aim to be comfortable, Mr. Griffin. Have a seat.” Garrison took off his hat and coat, and hung them on a rack by the door. His wet shirt was an acknowledgement of how hot Griffin’s car had been. Piles of paper sat on his desk too, along with a file folder named “Secret,” and written on top with a black marker, “Griffin, T.K.”

Griffin hated seeing folders with his name on them. It usually meant that someone had gone to the effort of finding out about his past, something he wanted to keep hidden. They’re all on computers now. I must do something about my file, he fumed mentally as he sat in one of the chairs facing the main desk, and folded his hands. His smile was stiff at the edges. 

A few seconds later, Warren entered carrying three cups of coffee on a tray. Another file was tucked under his arm. He put down the tray, and the file slipped, hitting the table and falling open. Papers and photographs fluttered over the carpet. 

Griffin picked one of. It was a dead young man, in his late twenties, with multiple gunshot wounds. Blood soaked his torn sleeveless tee shirt. Tattoos decorated his bare arms. “No me friegas!” and an ornately-drawn black rose with a skull-and crossbones in the center. 

He put the sheets on Warren’s desk, the picture on top, and took one of the cups of coffee. “Who is that?”

“Doesn’t shock you, Mr. Griffin?” Garrison asked as he accepted the other cup from Warren. “Thanks.

Griffin shrugged. “I’ve seen worse in the local newspaper.”

“True,” Warren muttered. “Usually on Sunday. Why do they always spoil breakfast that way?” He sipped on the hot liquid in his cup. 

“Let’s cut to the chase. What is this about?” Griffin demanded, looking around for a place to put his cup, and finally depositing it on Warren’s desk.

“Mr. Griffin, you acted as the seller for a shipment of arms,” Warren started, his tone becoming totally professional. “These small arms were to be shipped to a Mr. Lopez in Trinidad.”

"All perfectly legal," Griffin retorted. It was the Enrico shipment. Damn! "I have all the permits, gentlemen."

"That’s true," Garrison agreed. "All legal. Unfortunately, those guns never arrived.”

Griffin studied him. "Really?"

"I'm sure you already knew," Garrison replied, meeting his shaded gaze.

Griffin saw from the expression on Garrison's face that the other man was annoyed. The Marshal's face showed every emotion. He'd make a lousy mercenary, Griffin thought, in a flash. 

Warren tapped on the photo. "Five days ago, a young man named Ruben Zavala was killed down in Kabima. He was investigating a cocaine ring down there. He was one of my men."

"Yours personally? One of your team?" Griffin asked. "So what?"

"We got the murder weapon from the Mexican police down in Davina,” Garrison said coldly, “and traced the numbers."

Griffin's spine stiffened. Panic started to rise, but he choked it down. That was the connection to him then. The guns. Murder weapons now. "You found it had been sold by me," he concluded, watching Garrison's face.

"That's right," Garrison replied. "The manufacturer said it was from a shipment that he sold to you."

"How did they get to Mexico?" Griffin asked. "Davina? Where the hell is that?"

"That's what we want to know," Warren replied, avoiding the second question. "Got any ideas, Mr. Griffin?"

Griffin shook his head. "No. This is the first I've heard of them being in Mexico."

"But you knew they had gotten to Trinidad?" Garrison pounced. He leaned forward and put his empty cup on the desk.

"I got a message today saying that the shipment had been incomplete," Griffin said angrily, his voice betraying more than he wanted. Damn, what was it about the Texan that knocked him off his usual balance? See him as the man who might kill you, Griffin. Cool out. He shifted mental gears from defense to offense. "I was trying to find out what happened when you stopped me."

"Down on the docks? You were talking with Martin about a Pablo Enrico, correct?" Garrison asked.

Griffin nodded. "That's right. I was trying to get in Enrico's new address. He neglected to give it to me."

"He did a lot of work for you," Garrison commented dispassionately, watching Griffin like a hawk.

"Work?"

"When we found a partial fingerprint on the gun, we ran it through the FBI computers," Garrison said. "We got your name from them."

"I didn't know I was in the FBI computer," Griffin said, willing himself to be motionless.

"What came up was enough to make us run your name through other agencies’ computers," Warren stated.

"We found fragments of you in the DEA files, Secret Service, US Army intelligence, CIA. Enough acronyms to fill a basket," Garrison commented, leaning back in his chair. "Enough to make us interested in you and your guns."

"So what did you find out?" Griffin asked, shifting so he was facing the Marshal. Instinctively, he knew that the Texan was the more dangerous of the two men. They might be playing bad cop, good cop, but they were in charge right now. Griffin would play along until he got free.

"You're a mercenary. Unlike those wannabes who read Soldier of Fortune magazine, you're the real thing. A professional soldier for-hire. You even got a legend: you don't let your adversaries see your eyes, " Garrison said, staring at him intently.

Oh, God, that old saw was still in circulation? I shouldn’t have been so flippant that night in Australia. "Are we adversaries?" he retorted, returning his gaze. He could tell the green shades were irritating the Marshal no end. Garrison couldn't see those subtle signs that eyes gave away. It was a small victory on Griffin's part, and he enjoyed it.

"Let's not play games here," Warren said with an edge. "You operate in dangerous waters mostly outside the law. Your guns killed one of my people. So, if you have any information on the guns, and where they are now, or anything that can help us find the killer, then you'd better let us have it now, or I will haul you in after we find out truth, and lay obstruction of justice charges on you."

Griffin laid his hands on down on the table and gave a small smile that he intended to be believable. From their expressions, it wasn't. "The first time I found out the guns had gone astray was this morning. I don't have anything for you, gentlemen."

Garrison picked up his coffee cup, looked at the dregs at the bottom, then put it back. "What do you plan to do about your shipment, Griffin?"

"I was checking with the shipper when you stop me," Griffin omitted.

"Pablo Enrico?" Garrison asked. "We already checked on him. He's gone. Left the States –"

"Gone?" Griffin squeaked, his voice rising despite his control. What the hell was going on? He had counted on ditching Warren and Garrison and heading out for the address Martin given him. Once again, he was playing catch-up, and Griffin despised that.

"His mail hasn't been picked up in a week," Warren explained, spreading his hands. "We got a neighbor who had a key check for us. He's gone. Probably back to Mexico."

Griffin shrugged, trying to cover his discomfort. "He's gone, eh? Then, I haven't a clue of how to help you, gentlemen."

"You will keep in touch if you find something out?" Warren requested politely, his tone not a request.

"Always ready to help the federal government," Griffin said flatly, glancing at Garrison’s disbelieving face. He turned to Warren. "I want to know as much as you do about these guns."

Garrison nodded, not moving from his chair. "Then you are free to go, Mr. Griffin."

Griffin stared at him. "Thank you. My turn. I've got three questions for you both."

"What?" Warren replied. 

"First, what's the Marshals Service doing in this? Don't you chase fugitives?"

Garrison gave a smile as false as Griffin's earlier. "That's none of your business."

Griffin glanced at Warren. "Have you got a card?" Warren held his out.

"Thanks." Griffin stashed it in his pocket. "Finally," he held out his parking slip, "do you validate parking around here?"

***

On his way back to his apartment, Griffin saw the blue Chevrolet following him, making no attempt to hide itself. The feds didn't trust him, and they were probably right not to. He had no plans to tell them about Enrico’s nephew from Mexico. Let them find out for themselves after he had had a talk with Juan Perez.

He parked on the street, and walked back to the apartment. Running his hands through his hair, which was falling into his eyes, his fingers came away soaked with sweat. Under his jacket, the T-shirt was soaked.

It had been a long time since a man had made him sweat. Of course, it could be that he didn't know what was going on, something Griffin hated with a passion. Ignorance got mercenaries killed.

He saw smoke drifting from the deck where, from the smell, several partygoers were barbecuing steaks and hotdogs. At least the smoke was legal. All he needed right now was to have his neighbors arrested for illicit drugs.

Looking up the stairwell, he saw the empty apartment had been opened up, and strands of waltz music flowed out of it. Tina and the blonde young man danced across the upstairs landing, and she flashed him a quick smile and a beckoning wiggle of her fingers, but Griffin quickly inserted his key into the lock of his apartment, and went inside.

The afternoon sun shifted through the patio doors, and the half closed blinds. He debated closing the long window blinds, but decided not to. Shutting the blinds would be suspicious, acting as if he had something to hide. He wasn't guilty of anything yet.

He pulled an Atlas off the book tower, and sat down with it in his lap. Where was this Davina? After checking the index, he flipped to the page, and scanned the map

There was. A tiny dot on the map. Hardly worth the effort of putting on the map from the size

So, that is where the boy's from. That's where I'm headed. But not yet Sitting down in front of the computer, he opened a line to the local online service. He selected the widest possible search of newspaper files, and put in GARRISON, JAMES and (MARSHAL or MARSHALS SERVICE). 

Ten seconds later, it displayed 150 newspaper articles mentioning Garrison. Griffin whistled between his teeth as he modified the search, then scanned 24 that came up. Most of the information came from Southwestern newspapers. Jim Garrison was a Mountie of the Marshals Service, a cop who always got his man. If he’d been a bounty hunter, he could have paid the national debt. No, that was a bit of an exaggeration, Griffin thought. But close. 

The last article was on a Juanito Perezan who had killed a teenager in Brownsville in 1986, then escaped from state custody by killing a deputy sheriff. Garrison, after asking for the assistance of the local police, had arrested Perezan, but someone in the upper echelons of the Mexican police had intervened, taking custody of the boy, and thrown him into a Mexican prison. Garrison was trying to have Perezan extradited from the Kabima authorities to stand trial in the United States.

Griffin's inner alarms went off. Juanito Perezan was a little too close to Juan Perez. Enrico said his nephew came from the Kabima area. He changed his online search to find out the latest information on Perezan. He was still in prison in Mexico.

"I'll bet he isn't," Griffin said aloud. He sat back and thought about the next step. He needed to find out more about that death in Mexico where one of the guns was used. He tapped in ZAVALA, RUBEN.

There were only five articles on Ruben Zavala. The top article was the most recent, and the longest. Griffin whistled again.

Zavala had been working for Dom Pedro Salazair. Griffin read further. Salazair was reputed to be one of the biggest cocaine providers in the northern Mexican area, though his farms provided tamarinds, pecans and walnuts. It was rumored that half the local cops were on his payroll, but, like the drug allegation, that was unproven. Recently, he had been traced to the smuggling of illegal Asian immigrants and money laundering. Compared with Colombian drug lords, Salazair was small pickings but he was becoming a major player in the Mexican field. He did need weapons to keep his local rivals at bay, weapons like Griffin's guns.

I'll cross the border with the tourists in the morning, and drive to Davina. Griffin knew he’d better get moving. Umbagi's deadline was coming closer and closer, and he didn't want to think of what could happen to Minette. 

He signed off the databank, and shifted to his email. "Found the guns. Will be in touch soon. Keep faith. Roosevelt." He smiled as the computer encrypted it, and transmitted. Minette had always been amused by his name, Kermit, insisting that it came from American history, not television. 

It was one of the unique links he had with the woman. She had acted as his guide the first time Blaisdell sent him to Paris, both of the highlights and the lowlife read he supposed that he was a little bit in love with her…as were so many mercenaries.

He was running out of time. Going into his bedroom, he reached into his closet and pulled out an old sleeping bag. Thrusting his hand into the center of the bag, he pulled out a thick wad of bills, and a passport made out to Thomas K Griffin, a traveling computer salesman. He put it in his pocket, and went back to the living room.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled open a cabinet and took out a key pasted to the inside facing. He put it in his breast pocket.

First, I lose the cops, he thought, looking around the room, mentally bidding farewell. He might be back to clean the closets of clothing and to pick up a few mementos, but he had a feeling that this was the last time he'd be staying here. Damn, this is a shame. I liked it here! Of course, he can also be arrested for leaving town after Garrison’s and Warren’s warnings, but that was the risk he'd take.

He locked his door behind him, and went upstairs.

"You came!" Tina greeted him with a thrilled cry as she darted out of the empty apartment. Behind her, he could see the guest dancing a complicated polka. From the graceful movements, they had to be from the ballet rather than the girls’ students. He saw her roommate go by in the arms of a man who looked like a television anchor.

"I wouldn't miss this party, but I can't stay long," he said exerting himself to be extra charming. He took off his glasses and looked deep into her eyes.

Her smile widened. She held out her hand gracefully. "Will you dance with me, Mr. Griffin?"

He took her hand, and then with one powerful movement, swung her into a dip. Her braid dangled on the wood floor. "I would love to… But I really need to borrow your phone first." ""

She stared up into his face, startled. Then, she giggled. "What's wrong with yours, Mr. Griffin?"

"My lover has a trace on it," he replied in a meaningful undertone, then laughed as she gasped.

"You are just too much!" she replied, stepping away. "The phones in my bedroom. Right back there, you know." She pointed to a door at the end of the hall.

"Save me the next dance," he called, heading down the passage.

"I'll keep you to that promise," she replied.

He closed the bedroom door, and dialed. It rang six times before a man picked up. "Ya?"

"This is Robyn Meredith-Kurtz. I have to meet you," Griffin said with a German accent.

"Ya." Click. The man hung up. 

Griffin checks his watch. It would take three quarters of an hour for his contact to get to the meeting place. He had time for a dance too. It would be a way to say goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

The Camaro swung into the car wash. Three cars behind him, the blue Chevrolet parked against one wall where the driver could keep an eye on each end of the carwash, and waited. Griffin handed the ticket to the attendant, and rolled up his windows, the wet paper rag for cleaning the car lying on the seat beside him. He unfastened his seatbelt and slid his seat back, struggling out of the jacket which he laid it neatly beside him, ducking the shades in his shirt pocket. The car moved forward on the rollers, soapy water in scum flowing over the shiny sides.

Halfway through, he saw the man step up to the window. Griffin pushed open the door and was out. The man sprang inside and shut the door, leaving Griffin in a watery world. He dimly saw the man who slid on his light blue jacket. From a distance, he knew that Hans looked uncannily like Griffin, enough to trick the men following him. They had done this before.

Griffin picked up the coveralls that were left behind and pulled them on, then slid on the boots. He tied his hair back under a red bandanna. Picking up a small bundle, he put it under one arm, and slouched out front where he picked up a rag and began to dry the next car they came out of the water. A few swipes, then he wiped his face, transferring some of the crusted dirt to mask his identity.

Two cars later, he was certain that he had been overlooked by any leftover federal agents. The Chevrolet had pulled out after the Camaro. Hans would stay at the apartment until Griffin returned, watching the television that would finally get some use, eating out of the refrigerator, drinking the wine. It would cost Griffin's bank account dearly. The Camaro would stay parked at the apartment, misleading his pursuers as long as possible.

Griffin tossed the rag into the trash basket, and fumbling with the zipper, headed for the restrooms. Once inside, he stripped off the overalls, and took out a small bundle of clean jeans and a flannel shirt that Hans had left behind in a corner. The jeans fit like a second skin. Either he was gaining weight or Hans shrinking his clothing. He left the overalls over the unused towel rack, and walked out, looking like one of the unemployed who hung around every gas station.

A half hour later he reached an alley where a rusty brown sedan awaited. The engine started on the first turn of the key that he had saved, and Griffin headed south for the border.

***

Garrison stepped into Warren's office and stopped dead. "Frank, where you headed?"

Warren stuffed a plastic wrapped shirt into a carryall. "Mexico. Remember I was the Zavala's superior. Got to go down there and oversee the investigation."

"You're only case break is up here with Griffin's guns. Questions up here."

"I looked through the report on the Enrico place. They mentioned some old letters," Warren explained. "He had family down in Mexico in the Kabima area in one of those little towns – Davina. Which happens to be exactly where Dom Pedro Salazair is set up, and Zavala died. Somehow, I think they're connected." His tone was dry.

"Was it legal reading those letters?" Garrison asked with a hint of amusement.

"Hey, he's a missing person now. We need all the help we can get to find him, Warren said with a grin. "Anyway, I was going down about Zavala, so I thought I'd check out the link."

"Yeah, well, keep in mind that the Mexicans are our friends," Garrison laughed. He set down his chair and leaned back. "You may not like some of them but they are on our side."

"If you believe that about all of them, I'll sell you London Bridge," Warren retorted.

"Already seen it out in the Arizona desert," Garrison countered.

Warren studied him. "For a man who has had his battles with the Mexican police over Juanito Perezan, you're very supportive."

"Not everyone south of the border is a crook," Garrison said with a shrug.

"I'm glad for your help,” Warren commented in sudden seriousness. "I wasn't sure the Marshal Service would let you help me out with the Zavala case. It's not exactly your jurisdiction."

"Well, you just find me a fugitive," Garrison boomed, "and that'll be my job. We need to do more cross service work, Warren. My boss thought it would be a great idea."

"Watch yourself. Griffin's a dangerous man," Warren commented, slinging the bag on his shoulder.

"Yeah, and he's got big friends in Washington. I'll watch my back, you watch yours," Garrison said with a shrug. "I'm not afraid of a mercenary."

"Especially one who is sloppy enough to lose shipments!" Warren laughed.

***

The thin elderly man with a ramrod straight posture sat in an ornately carved antique chair. His white hair contrasted with the dark mahogany of the stained wood. His face had high arched cheekbones, and a hooked nose in a huge pale mustache. His black eyes studied the group of men facing him.

Two guards flanked a young man who held his head up proudly. His long black hair was a brilliant contrast to the yellow bandanna around his neck, and the worn shirt and pants. His mud encrusted boots made a startling contrast with the red and black afghan carpet. 

An older man with a heavy black mustache stood behind the trio out of sight of the youngster. He wore a policeman's uniform with highly shined buttons. His boots reflected the light of the ornate silver lamps.

"Juanito Perezan, I sent you to America to keep you safe, but you came back," the old man finally said in Spanish, his tone authoritative. He tapped a fingertip on the top of the Polish desk. "Now you have killed that man, Zavala, with no provocation, just as you killed that boy in Brownsville."

"He was asking questions about you, Don Pedro," Juanito, replied indignantly.

"You killed him because he asked where you got all the money," Salazair contradicted him. “I ordered you not to show that money around but you didn't listen to me!"

"He thought it was from the drugs, not from the guns. He didn't know anything about the guns!" Juanito protested, his face complained like a babies.

"But you killed again, after I told you I couldn't cover it again,” Salazair said with a sorrowful shake of his head.

"I had to give the gun to the Americans, Juanito," the policeman said unexpectedly from behind them. "They found a print on it – "

"Not mine! I wiped them off, Chief Lazzaro!" Juanito cut in, looking over his shoulder fearfully.

"Si, it was another man, the one that sent the guns," Lazzaro replied, moving forward until he was in the light of lamps. “Who is he?”

Juanito look like he was going to spit, then thought better of it. “Kermit Griffin. He is a friend of Enrico's." 

"Your uncle," Salazair said in reproof. His eyes bored into the boy’s.

"You are my father, you are my family, Don Pedro," Juanito said passionately. "He was nothing. My mother never mentioned him -- "

"Your mother died, leaving you alone,” Lazzaro cut in. "Then, your uncle did his best."

Juanito shrugged lifting his head proudly. "I was a man before he found me."

"What did your uncle say about this Griffin?" Salazair demanded. "Who is this Griffin?"

"Enrico said he worked with Griffin for years, and had seen him do many things, many dangerous things. This was the smallest shipment Enrico ever did for him," Juanito explained. "I have met this Griffin, this gringo. He is nothing. He is just a man."

Salazair's gaze went to Lazzaro, and the chief narrowed his eyes, singling that he needed to talk with Salazair later.

"Then he is no danger to me?" Salazair questioned, folding his hands. 

"No, Señor! He will never know where the guns are! I made sure that my uncle couldn't say anything. I left no loose parts __"

"Loose ends," Lazzaro contradicted him.

"Loose ends for them."

"You killed your uncle," Salazair said quietly watching the young man's face. "That is a sin, Juanito. You have killed family."

"I had to kill him. He saw us changing the box labels, and asked me why. He would've told that gringo, Griffin, they would have stopped me. I buried him far out of town in the sand."

"Killing family. That's bad," Salazair repeated with quiet menace. He stood up, the Stern patriarch. "How can I trust a man who kills his blood?”

"He was not one of us anymore. He was an American! I had to bring you those guns, Dom Pedro, so I could come home." Juanito fell to one knee and held up his hands as if in prayer. Both guards reach for their guns. "You took me from the streets and gave me food and an education, and a life. You are my family, Don Pedro. Don't send me away again, please! I will do anything for you. You are my father!"

Lazzaro winced and looked outside at the baked earth. A crow flew by, a black shape against the orange and red sunset.

"You have brought danger into my house," Don Pedro finally said, his tone softening. He drummed his finger on the desk for second, then curled his hand to keep it from moving. "This indiscriminate killing must stop!"

"Yes, Don Pedro," Juanito said submissively lowering his head.

"You could have gotten rid of this Zavala some other way than killing him!"

"He insulted me!" Juanito retorted, flinging back his head. "He said I had not made that money fairly! He suggested I made it on my back?"

"Zavala? Not Zavala. I knew about him," Lazzaro said angrily cutting into the young man's protestation. "I was making sure he would never get close to Don Pedro." His hand slammed on the wall loudly, and everyone jumped except Salazair. 

Juanito hung his head. "I am sorry, Chief Lazzaro. I should not have lost my temper." 

"I find something else for you to do than sit in the cantina’s. The crop is ready to be harvested. You will work there until I call you back," Salazair ordered. "Can you do that until I find you other work, Juanito Perezan?" 

"Si, Don Pedro."

"Then get out. Luis."

One of the guards put his hand under boy's elbow and hold him to his feet. They went out the garden doors and down the patio, and disappeared around the corner.

Salazair sighed as he sat. "Lazzaro?"

"That boy should be killed," the policeman replied. He sat down in one of the embroidered chairs that face the desk. The sun reflected off his badge.

"He did bring us the guns."

"He has, as the Americans say, a loose cannon. He is even more of a danger now than when he was before." 

"How so?"

Lazzaro pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I have a message here from the American DEA. An agent, Frank Warren, arrives in a couple of hours."

"To do what?"

"To do what"

"To aid in our investigation into the death of Zavala." 

"Not to look for Juanito?"

“He doesn't know that Juanito lives. The murder weapon is only lead, Don Pedro. I had to hand it over to them" 

"What about this Griffin?" 

The chief shrugged then held up his hands. "I cannot get the Americans to share that knowledge, Don Pedro."

Don Pedro nodded slowly, his gaze going out the windows to the hard baked landscape outside. The setting sun drenched the bricks and flowers and bloodied light. "That could mean anything. Find out about this Griffin, Lazzaro. Before this, I did not know that Juanito stole from a man who would work with his uncle. Enrico’s work in Latin America was well done. If Griffin was involved, that he is more dangerous than that boy knows."

Lazzaro nodded understandingly. "I shall find out immediately, Don Pedro. Should we let this Warren have Juanito?"

Salazair hesitated. "Juanito knows too much about me, Lazzaro, too much about my work. Why do you suggest we get him to Warren?"

The chief shrugged again. "He is a loose end, Don Pedro. Sooner or later, he will boast once too often, and then the world will be on him. So far, he is just a murderer of a single man. The Americanos have wanted him for a long time. Tell him, that he goes back, does his time, and keep his mouth shut, and you will take him back, Don Pedro."

"The Americanos will make sure he never leaves America," Salazair commented. "Juanito killed a lawman up there. He nearly killed the marshal, Garrison, who caught him, and wants Juanito to stand trial."

Lazzaro threw his hands apart. "Who said he would be taken alive? But this Warren, he must have the proof that Juanito killed Zavala. Juanito must somehow confess before he dies or Warren will keep looking and maybe find you."

Salazair was silent for a second, Steve leaned his fingers and pressing them against his lips. "I raised the boy."

"He kills his uncle," Lazzaro retorted. The chief leaned forward, putting both hands on the desk, and stared at Don Pedro. "He killed his blood family. How can you trust him? I will keep agent Warren away from Juanito unless you give me orders, Don Pedro. But it must be soon or it will be too late.

"The Americans do not suspect you?" Salazair asked, looking up. 

"Not yet, and I will keep it that way," Lazzaro replied. "So, I will give Agent Warren all the help he needs to find his criminal?"

"It is for the best. Poor Juanito." Salazair looked out the doors at a crow pecking at something. "He could never keep his temper. It will cost him his life." 

*** 

Ten hours later, Griffin parked in a roadside stop and took a nap under the cold lights. Parked around him were massive trailer trucks with drivers dozing in their cabs. A police car sat at one end of the stop, its running lights on. Griffin felt very safe.

Despite exhaustion, sleep eluded him. 

Life had all seemed so simple years ago when he got in the mercenary business, Griffin fought unexpectedly. He examined that idea for a second. He rarely we visited this past, or his decision to enter the profession of a soldier of fortune. 

His parents hadn’t been terribly pleased when one of their sons vanished into the military, but they always supported him when he needed it. After a few years, he dropped contact with them, assuming that his job would put them in danger. 

Years later, when he realized he thought he was more important than he was, and that the world wasn't out to kill him - at least not all the time - he tried to re-contact his family. His father had died, and his mother was in a hospice. She breathed her last before he arrived. All that was left was his brother, David, who had major drug problems, and a younger sister, Marilyn, who had always seen him as her protector. Griffin wished he had been there before she married a boring and conventional husband. Still, their two kids had turned out well.

Now, he really was too dangerous to stay in contact with them. There were too many layers of dangerous missions, or being supportive of his illicit work. Some places in the world were now off-limits forever because he left behind physical or mental bombs.

Around him, mosquitoes buzzed in the globes of the parking lights. On one side, a trucker climbed down from his cab and shuffled towards the restroom. Griffin looked at his hands spayed on the steering wheel, and curled them until his knuckles showed white.

It had been the love of excitement more than money that made him a mercenary. It was the chance of doing things unconventionally, instead of being trapped in the structured existence of the military, that brought him to the attention of Blaisdell, the Falcon. Blaisdell had had a real knack for selecting the dissatisfied and finding the perfect niche for their talents outside of conventional society. Griffin’s years with Blaisdell had taken him from Angola to Chile to the mountains of Nepal and Afghanistan, and had been filled with more than the money a mercenary could earn. There had been excitement. Sometimes there had even been some idealism involved.

Idealism. What a concept. For most mercenaries, it was a word in a foreign language. They were in it for the money and for the perks, rape, pillage, booty, a thousand words for the despoiling and invasion of other countries by paid soldiers. But with Blaisdell in charge, there was the off chance that you might be doing it for a greater good. Griffin never doubted that his leader still worked with the US government for many of his missions, and, while the government wasn't always correct, they usually had a reason (mostly in their own self interest but what country didn't act that way?), for their actions.

Griffin's problems started when Blaisdell had retired from mercenary business, and gone legitimate. His retreat into the police force of a city simply ensured that most of his former opponents avoided that city. If he was called in by the government, it would be as an advisor, not as a player. The world of arms trading, mercenaries, illegal operations didn't stop because one man left it. If he was lucky, he could opt out, as Blaisdell did. He took any of the old crew with him, the ones who had wanted to go anyway. His opponents had been glad that Blaisdell's presence had left the field clear.

That was not for Griffin. He shook hands with Blaisdell, explaining that there was just too much money to be made in mercenary supply and demand, and he wasn't ready to bury himself yet. Blaisdell warned him that someday the game would become less important in human relationships, and that family would be more important than pursuing fame, fortune, reputation and wealth. Griffin had laughed, and left before he had to see Annie Blaisdell, who knew more than he wanted about him, or the two girls who knew him as daddy's friend.

"I miss him," Griffin said aloud. His words echoed around the car. "I miss them all."

I miss laughter. I miss the human touch. He had seen the girls hold their parties, laugh and cry, and stretch out their hands to him even though they didn't know what he did or that he could hurt them. Their openness was as alluring as the lights above were too moths. They were so trusting.

For so many years, I kept people at arms length. Is it time to change?

He realized he was seen the rising sun coming over the low mountains. He started his engine and headed out of on the road. He get some coffee, and breakfast at a fast food restaurant, then head across the border with the first pack of tourists. 

***

Warren shielded his eyes as he stepped off the plane. The barren sandy land around the airstrip was broken by the occasional Yucca plant and tumbleweed. From above, he’d seen the cultivated farms to the east of the small city, extending up into the mountains on the eastern horizon. The potholed runway that extended across the flat Earth like an arrow had at one and a cluster of buildings, and waiting for buses and cars. 

I'll be glad that I brought the sunblock." 

The other passengers on the King air turboprop headed for the customs station set to one side, leaving him standing alone.

Finally a white Chevrolet with police marking to drove onto the runway, and stopped. A tall Mexican officer. "Mr. Warren?" He inquired politely. "From the Drug Enforcement Agency?"

"Chief Lazzaro?" Warren held out his hand, and they ship warmly. "Glad to see you here."

"Si. I am glad to meet you at last."

"At last?" Warren put on his hat. The brim gave welcome shade from the blazing sun.

"I have had many or messages from your office regarding your work. My government has told me to assist you in any way I can."

"I'm down here about Zavala," Warren said firmly. "I want to see all his notes."

Lazzaro led the way to his car. "Copies of those files were sent to you –"

"I saw that stuff, but there has to be more," Warren said thoughtfully. "Some reports on Salazair seem incomplete. The last two reports were handed to me just as I boarded the plane. They were somewhere in the system until now. They mentioned a fugitive that he recognized, a Juanito Perezan, who was down here –" 

"Juanito Perezan!" Lazzaro sounded shocked.

"You know him?"

Lazzaro nodded. "Very well indeed. He escaped from the prison in Kabima last week. He has been seen in the neighborhood of Davina."

"Have you told my office or the FBI? Garrison will chew nails at this! Warren thought.

"I believe my deputy did call, but I am not sure. I will find out," Lazzaro promised as he opened the door to his car.

"We’re also looking into that gun again," Warren continued, slinging his bag into the back seat. "My boys found some other prints on it."

"More prints?”

Warren heard an edge of worry in Lazzaro's voice. "Yeah. Someone tried to clean them off but it didn't work."

"My men should have caught them days ago," the police chief murmured muttered. He gunned the car, and they left the customs building behind in a cloud of red dust. "Have you ever been in Davina before, Agent Warren?"

"Not at all. Seems like a small town."

"Yes, but employs most of the men in the neighboring area." Lazzaro headed down a part dirt, part asphalt road. "We have several large ranches here, and some farms. Now have indoor plumbing and television as well."

Yeah, subsidized by Dom Pedro's drug profits, Warren thought as he watched the landscape outside the tinted glass. Snakes slithered through the dry dirt by the side of the road, dodging in and out of the parched grass. Most of the earth was red clay. "Can you take me to where Zavala was killed?" Warren requested.

"We will drive past it on the way to the office," Lazzaro said. "I give you the guided tour, a\Agent Warren."

"Thanks."

They passed abandoned warehouses, their corrugated roofs in middle size sides, were covered with the dry dust that permeated everywhere, and gave the town a dingy look. Cantinas lined the roads between gas stations and small groceries. On the tops of many of the buildings were in television antennas.

"It looks very quiet," Warren finally commented

"It is siesta," Lazzaro explained, turning into a parking lot. A small restaurant looked innocuous and the harsh daylight. Several cars including a brown sedan, and a battered truck carrying rakes and shovels, were parked outside. "They will be out working again in several hours."

"This is the place where Zavala died?"

"This is it."

***

Griffin took a bite out of the burrito. The small cantina smelled of spicy smell of food, and a sour scent of most of the patrons. Flies buzzed around his head.

He looked very different from the man who had crossed the border several hours before. The skintight jeans had been gratefully replaced with loose khaki trousers. He wore an old worn blue jean shirt with a dark, striped vest over it, and had tied his hair back in a ponytail with a rubber band. His face was red from sunburn, so he bought a straw hat. His hands and face were dirty from the dirt that he used to break in his new pants,. The secondhand store had been a boon. It took his American dollars, replaced them with pesos, and asked no questions when he left behind his old clothes. His sunglasses were left behind in the car, and he felt naked.

He swallowed the last of the burrito. This was where Zavala had been killed by one of Griffin's guns. There would be a lead here. I need someone who can tell me where Juanito lives. A contact. I wonder if anyone here knows him. He surveyed the men who were joking as they drank beer, and ate their food. They all looked like farmers or truckers.

The light was blocked by two men, and the conversation died in the room.

The two men were a Mexican policeman and an obvious American, from the suit and tie. They glanced around the room, then went out the opposite door, the policeman leading the way. Griffin recognized the American as Frank Warren. He let the hat slide over his face, and slouched in his chair.

One of the busboys came over to his table and gave it a casual swipe with a fairly dirty cloth. Griffin plucked his sleeve. "What's that all about?" he asked in Spanish.

The busboy shrugged. “A week ago, maybe a little more, a man was shot outside. Since then, we have police all time."

"Shot!" Griffin reacted as if he was horrified, but was still curious. He knew his accent would betray him if he asked too many questions. His Spanish came from Morocco and Argentina, not Mexico.

It passed muster with the busboy, who went on in a whisper. "Si. He was with a group. They were spending money, lots of money. The man who killed him was after Felicia, but the dead man stopped him. The killer shot him just outside the back door! Shot him in the back."

"The killer, he was caught, right?"

The busboy shook his head. "No, he got away. But I know who he is," he said flatly as if it came as no surprise.

"Have you told the police?"

The busboy looked at him scornfully. "Talk to the federales? No, Senior, they would not listen to me. It is not worth mentioning it to the policeman anyway." 

"Who was that man?" Griffin asked curiously, watching the men. 

"That was El Capitan Lazzaro." The busboy dropped his voice theatrically. "They say he knows the killer very well. He knows Dom Pedro Salazair very well too."

The chief knows Don Pedro? Was this common knowledge? Was he crooked? If he was, why was Warren there? Did Warren know? Was he corrupt as well? "That's – the chief? Was he?"

The busboy wiped his clock on the table and final time, and eyed him suspiciously. "I go back to work now. You worked for the police, eh?"

"Not on your life," Griffin laughed. 

The waiter moved away, every now and then glancing back.

Griffin realized he was done here. If he could believe the busboy, then Davina was one entire mass of police corruption. It wouldn’t do any good to go to Lazzaro to find Juanito. 

I'm wasting my time here. Even if I find one, it's going to take calling him back to the United States, or, maybe – why don't I just go to the top? Griffin tossed his wrappers in the bin and headed out the opposite way for Warren and Lazzaro.

***

"Garrison."

"Jim, this is Frank Warren."

"How are the tacos?"

"Spicy. I'm living on Pepto. Listen, I've got some news for you. Juanito Perezan has escaped from a Mexican present."

Garrison's oath sizzled down the line. "How? Why wasn't I told about it?"

"Dunno, but I'm pretty sure that he's in the area."

"Fugitives always return to their homes, Frank," Garrison said. "It happens all the time." He swiveled in his chair and started tapping on the computer keyboard. Perezan’s file came up. "He hails from Davina." 

"Yeah, well, if you want some help capturing him, Lazzaro said he would do it," Warren replied. "Apparently, it's a point of honor down here.”

"Yeah, right. They probably helped him."

Another agent tapped on the door of Garrison’s borrowed office. "Marshal?"

"Yeah?"

"Forensics just sent this up. They said it should go directly to you."

"Jim, what's happening?" Warren questioned. "What if you got?"

Garrison flipped open the file and cursed again. "Frank, we got a dead man was linked to the case. Seems some guy found a body out in the desert. Turns out to be Pablo Enrico."

"The docker?"

"Yep. Throat cut. The boys in forensics dusted his jacket though."

"And?"

"Found some of your fingerprints," Garrison said thoughtfully.

"Don't tell me. Juanito Perezan.?"

“The one and only. A hiring form from the dock was found in the papers in the study. He is using the name 'Juan Perez' now."

"How original."

"Keep your eyes out down there, Frank," Garrison said soberly "Ten to one, Perez killed his uncle. I know this punk; he's unstable. Just because he doesn't have a gun right now, doesn't mean he can't get another."

"I'll keep in touch, Jim."

"You do that. I may be joining you in a couple of days."

"I'll save a taco for you."

***

Don Pedro sat on the balcony shaded by a large orange stripe umbrella. The flowers grew in wild abundance in the planters leading down the stairs.

He turned his head as three men came out of the house. Two of them, guards, flanked the third man who wore sunglasses and a straw hat. He pulled up a chair without asking, and took off his sombrero, smoothing back his dark hair. 

Don Pedro admired his cool manner.. This mercenary had nerve, and a familiar name. That was what had gotten him through the gates.

He raised his finger, and waved it. The guards obeyed his outspoken command, and retreated several steps. 

"It is a long drive from America, Mr. Griffin," Don Pedro said finally after a few minutes of silence. "What is your business with me?"

"Guns," Griffin replied flatly. "I smell guns."

"Guns?" Don Pedro remembered that Juanito had denigrated Griffin's dangers, and knew the boy was a fool. This was not the kind of man to play games with. Juanito should have left the guns behind. "You mentioned it to my assistant that you are looking for a Juan Perez. I'm not sure why you have come to me."

"My guns. The guns that Juan Perez stole and brought to Davina," Griffin said with a fake smile.

"You guns?" Don Pedro prevaricated. 

"I'm the exporter. A shipment of my guns is here when they should be somewhere else. I want them back."

Don Pedro spread his hands innocently. "You think they're here? I am a farmer, Mr. Griffin. I do not use guns."

"There are people who would like to cut into your crop," Griffin said meaningfully. "You need firepower to protect all those tender plants. I know that Juan Perez is helps you with the harvest."

“I know a Juanito Perezan, a wild boy, but I have not seen him for weeks. I don't know anything about a shipment of guns." Don Pedro wondered if his secretary have been intelligent enough to call Lazzaro and tell him about the visitor. "I'm a simple farmer."

Griffin looked disbelieving. "And I'm a simple businessman in the area of security. I will be in touch with you, Mr. Salazair, regarding the guns.”

"You will be staying in Mexico, Mr. Griffin?" Salazair asked, studying him. There had to be away to solve the situation outside of killing the man outright, but Don Pedro couldn't think of it right away. 

"Until I'm satisfied, yes. I have to make sure that I get my guns back; the owner is looking for them. However, if you need some other weapons to protect your crops, Mr. Salazair, I'm sure I can satisfy you," Griffin offered in a businesslike tone.

"By your own admission, you have already lost one shipment of guns. Mr. Griffin. I'm not sure that you would be an efficient man to do business with," Salazair replied, and noticed that Griffin looked annoyed for a second. He had hit him on a short sore spot.

"I found that shipment, Mr. Salazair. My next job is to get them where they should be," Griffin answered. He set the chair neatly against the table edge. "Or to replace them with new weapons.”

Salazair raised an eyebrow, and gave a frigid smile. "Have a good trip back to the United States, Mr. Griffin." He waved a hand to the guard to came closer. He watched as they led Griffin away, then pick up the telephone on the table next to him. After four rings, someone picked up. "Lazzaro?"

"Yes?" The policeman replied in a soft tone. 

"You have a visitor?"

"Si."

"I have had one too, the man who Juanito stole the guns from! He threatened me!"

"Threatened!"

"Have you found out anything about him yet?"

"Not up. I will find out, Señor."

Salazair hung up. The nerve of Griffin to come to his home to threaten him, then to offer to sell hidden weapons. A hint of smile came to his lips. Griffin was out of his league. He had reacted like a proud businessman. The essence of good business was a man's reputation. What if that was destroyed? He had to think this through -- or Griffin could just vanish. Lazzaro could see to that. All Don Pedro had to do was give the order.

***  
Warren leaned back in the chair in the tiny office even given in the Mexican station, and stared out the window in the door.

He could see Lazzaro talking with another policeman, then pick up a telephone. What was that about? The chief laughed, and set down the receiver.

What was it about the police chief that set off alarms in Warren's head? Was it the smooth way the man had had all files ready for him, the way he had driven them into town and showed him the crime scene. He was almost too friendly. The DEA agent couldn't place why he felt uneasy, but he did.

So, what do I have? I have a dead DEA man, an escaped Mexican fugitive who killed him, and who I can't find and can't arrest because I don't have the authority. I will still have to extradite the young bastard even if I do catch them.

Warren looked up. Lazzaro had left and the policeman in the room were settling down to work. He leaned back and began reading the interrogations on Zavala's death.

A half hour later he tossed the fourth report on the desk. The witnesses had been too scared to talk to the police. This was a dead end. Damn, he wanted to solve this crime and go home! And this was only the first day. The door opened as he picked up the final file.

"Mr. Warren?" Lazzaro called. 

"Yes?"

"You mentioned that you would trace the guns to a businessman in Brownsville named Griffin?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you know he is here in Mexico?" Lazzaro inquired. "I checked with our border police and he crossed the border this morning."

"Griffin's here?" Warren repeated sharply, standing. "Where?"

"I have had reports of a man that looks like him here in Davina," Lazzaro reported, losing satisfaction.

"I know what he looks like," Warren snapped. "Are you looking for him?"

“Si. I hope to hear soon where he is."

"I'd like to be there if you pick him up," Warren asked. "I'd like to ask him what he's doing down here!"

"I will have him brought down here," the chief promised. "First, I have to find him."

Warren looked at the man's retreating back as all his suspicions revive. Lazzaro was too smooth and accommodating. He was just too close to everyone down here. 

Uneasily, Warren wondered what crime Griffin would have to have done to be picked up, or if the cops would just arrest them without provocation. Somehow, he didn't think Griffin would appreciate that.

***

Griffin parked outside a small rundown hotel near some decrepit warehouses. The ancient warehouses with rusty, dented walls, in gaping holes where the windows had been. Crowds of people awaited the buses that would take them down the four-lane highway that led to the city.

His stomach rumbled. It had been too long since that burrito and he wanted something substantial.

Ambling down the street, he spotted a cantina, and went inside. He took off his sunglasses, and put them in a back pocket.

As had the earlier restaurant, it was dark and dusty. The tabletop was sticky. Flies buzzed around him and out the holes in the rusty screen over the windows.

"Quesadillas, por favor," he ordered. "Dos Equis." The waiter nodded, and went to the kitchen, to immediately bring back the beer bottle.

Griffin took a long draft, and felt a trickle down his dry throat. Pure heaven in liquid. He looked out the window. The street was bordered with small shops in vendors selling fruit, vegetables and ponchos. Clusters of men leaned against the building, laughing and talking, as they took their work breaks. Women carry groceries as they went by, many with small children holding onto their colorful skirts heading to cook the evening meal. A street vendor sold records and more just at the edge of the window.

A familiar face came into view, stopping by the vendor, and Griffin's eyes narrowed. It was Juan himself. He didn't look much different from when he was up north, wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and grubby jeans. 

Griffin shoved back his chair and went outside, ignoring the calls of the waiter. The men followed him, grabbing his arm, hindering him.

The uproar alerted Juan. The boy stared at him for a panicked second, then took off down the road.

Griffin shook off the waiter and started in pursuit, only to be brought down by one of the idlers. He kicked out, landing one solid blow, and felt other hands grabbing at him. A small crowd surrounded him, hitting him on the head and shoulders. The waiter was asking for his money.

He grabbed one arm and swung the idler around into the crowd which toppled two men. Three more idlers tackled him, bringing him to his knees. In and grabbed his long hair, a yanked back his head. Griffin's eyes watered at sudden pain. Linking back the tears, he saw the first man left his fist punch him.

Dimly, he heard the sound of an engine, then the crack of a gun going off. The man holding his hair released it.

Lifting his head, Griffin saw a policeman making his way through the crowd.

"This man is under arrest," the policeman yelled angrily. "For causing a disturbance! Leave him alone!"

The crowd roared approval as the officer snapped handcuffs around Griffin's wrists and hauled him to his feet. His hair fell in his eyes.

"Where are we going?" he asked in Spanish to the policeman.

The man gave him a shove towards the car. "La estacion de policia."

 _Great. First, I'm hauled in by the US feds, now I'm arrested by the Mexicans. I can't win!_ Griffin thought numbly as he was shoved into the backseat. _I didn't do anything to deserve it either. For once, I’m innocent._


	4. Chapter 4

The interrogation room of the police station had cinderblock walls, and bars over the small window. The table look like it dated from the Spanish invasion and the chairs were visibly uncomfortable. It was all guaranteed to unnerve the suspect’s nerve. It seemed to have no effect on the man sitting across the table, Warren thought. It was likely that Griffin probably had been interrogated in worse places than this and come out fine. It would take more than discomfort to break his nerve. 

Lazzaro leaned his chair against the concrete wall, and the sound was disconcertingly loud.

Warren tossed a photo in front of Griffin.

"We've been here before. Tell me the truth. Do you know this man?" It was the mug shot of Juanito Perezan taken in Brownsville before he broke free.

Griffin looked at the photo and nodded. Sweat rolled down his face. "That's Juan Perez. I was chasing him –"

"That's Juanito Perezan. He's a fugitive from Mexican and American justice."

"That's Enrico's nephew. He was supposed to put my crates on the ship."

"It looks like he brought them down here instead," Warren said with a shrug.

"And used one to kill your man," Griffin replied with a sharp edge. 

"Why are you here?" Warren asked.

"I came down here for my guns,” Griffin explained, slouching back in his chair. Despite the perspiration, and even with the handcuffs around each wrist, he looked in control of himself. “I’m a business man, remember?”

“To catch Juanito? To get your guns from him?”

Griffin shrugged. 

Warren knew that there was more to it than the mercenary was going to tell them. "We found Enrico's body," Warren said. "His throat was cut."

Griffin shifted his gaze to Warren. His eyes narrowed menacingly. "Cut?"

"According to the autopsy Garrison sent me, he was dead before we searched his house," Warren went on, watching Griffin intently. Was he really shocked or faking it? "Probably about the time the guns crossed the border. Where were you just after that shipment went out?"

Griffin leaned forward, his arms on the photo. "You don't think I killed him?"

"Haven't made up my mind."

"Get a warrant. Look at my phone records, look at where I was in the US. I didn't kill him."

"Doesn't take long to get out to the desert where we found him," Warren commented.

"But why would I kill Enrico? He was a friend! Look at the facts! Find Perez, and you find the answers to all these questions!" 

"Why do you come down to Mexico, Griffin?"

"To get my guns back and to get the truth for you and Garrison," Griffin said harshly. "I don't want you people haunting me for the rest of my life like a bad nightmare."

"You've already got a record, Griffin," Warren commented. "A long mercenary one."

"I never killed a federal agent. I never will."

Lazzaro stood up. "Shall I hold him, Agent Warren, for disturbing the peace?"

Warren studied Griffin's angry face. "No, he was the victim in a street brawl. I think we should just deport him back to Garrison."

"Si. I will make the arrangements." Lazar ascended dissatisfied but he left the room, leaving them alone.

"Do you trust him?" Griffin asked unexpectedly jerking his head towards the door.

Warren's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I hear he's dirty."

"From whom?" 

"Word on the street," Griffin confessed.

"I can't use an unnamed source," Warren replied. "Got to do better than that."

"But what do you think of him?"

The door opened before Warren could reply. Two guards pulled Griffin to his feet and hustled him out the door.

Warren gathered up his photographs. He didn't blame Griffin for coming south to find out the truth of the shipments, and he had acted very shocked at Enrico's death. He put the photos in their folder and followed Griffin out.

***

Garrison rocked back and forth on his heels, impatiently. Around, and in front of him, Brownsville International Airport bustled with activity. The small turboprop from Davina landed and taxied up to the terminal. Its passengers disembarked opposite lower terminal, and a few seconds later, a Mexican policeman came down the stairs, accompanied by a still handcuffed Griffin. Two men from Airport Security moved at the same time Garrison did, and the pair were both escorted to the holding room.

"Thought we told you to stay in town, Griffin," Garrison said, eyeing the man. Griffin look like he'd seen better days from his bruised and dirty face to the large rents in the knees of his pants. Garrison knew that happened in a fight.

"Ole!" Griffin said flippantly. "You get better chili south of the border."

Garrison signed the form that Mexican officer held out, and returned it. "Looks like you had fun. One more inch, and you lose the rest of that pants leg. Take those handcuffs off him."

Seconds later, Griffin massaged his sore wrists and eyed Garrison suspiciously.

The marshal took the plastic bag that held Griffin's wallet, sunglasses, car keys, passport and watch from the officer. "Okay, he's mine. You got a ticket waiting for the next flight back," Garrison ordered. "Thanks for all of this."

The officer saluted, and left the room.

"The rest of you, scat. I'll take care of Griffin."

"Marshal!" one of the Airport Security men protested, but Garrison shot him a look of dismissal.

"What's up, Marshal?" Griffin asked, as they close the door, and they were alone. "Found another patsy for your killing?"

"Warren sent me his report. I followed up on his suggestions right away," Garrison replied, holding out the bag. "I found a number of people who placed you here in Brownsville when Enrico was killed." 

"A number of them?" Griffin asked warily.

"Grocery, laundry, movie. Your girlfriends upstairs who you helped with their computer. Nice gals there," Garrison smiled benevolently. "I sent Warren a message hour ago telling him you were covered here. He said to let you go."

"You never had a reason to hold me," Griffin retorted. "I was acting within my rights."

"You leave a trail of dead wherever you go, but I'm sure you stop noticing it," Garrison snapped back. "We told you not to leave the area."

"Arrest me then," the other man said angrily. "Oh, I forgot. You don't have a reason."

"Griffin, did you know that the Mexicans want to charge you with inciting a riot? Warren saved your ass getting you back here to safety!"

"Thank him for me. I can take care of myself without his help."

Garrison shook his head in disgust. Stubborn man. Warren should have saved his breath and his compassion. "If that's the way you want to play it, then that's it. You want a ride back to your apartment?"

"I'll take a cab. I've got the cash," Griffin ripped open the plastic bag and put his wallet into his back pocket. He strapped on his watch and tucked the passport into his jacket. He slid his sunglasses onto his nose.

"Then, we have nothing more to say to each other," Garrison replied formally. "You're free to leave. Have a good evening. Keep in touch. Don't leave town."

Griffin stared at him coldly, then walked over to the door. After second’s hesitation, he pulled it open and went outside.

Garrison trailed him to where Griffin hailed a taxi. Turning to go back inside, Garrison noticed a man was watching Griffin get in the cab. His suspicions rose when the watcher dodged into a small van, driven by an older man, and they moved into traffic just as Griffin's taxi drove away.

A touch of unease stroked Garrison's neck. Something was going on, something strange. The man looked familiar. He had seen him recently, but in a uniform. The Mexican policeman from a few minutes ago? His flight wouldn't take off until tomorrow morning, so it made sense that he find a friend to stay with in Brownsville. But why would he be interested in Griffin?

Garrison shrugged, and went inside, heading for the security area. Maybe he better make sure the local cops cruised by Griffin's apartment at regular intervals to make sure the man stayed home.

***

Griffin cursed under his breath. The cab had had a flat tire on the expressway, and by the time a new cab had been called, arrived, it had been over two hours in the heat laden pollution of the city. His battered shirt stuck to his shoulders in a sticky humidity. He brushed his dirty hair away from his face, and swore again.

He climbed into the new cab and settled back in the cushions, gave his address and started thinking as the car sped away from the other driver.

Umbagi's deadline was coming uncomfortably close considering his present position. What was happening in Paris with Minette? He’d find a message from her when he got to the apartment, he was sure. With all that had happened, he still hadn't gotten very far. He had to get on the ball now. There was no more time to play around. He'd have to act even though he had no idea of the faintest idea of what to do now.

Back to the apartment. Was Hans still there? The German could let him in and return his house keys. Now a free man now he could head back to Mexico, find his guns and find a way to get them on their way to Trinidad.

The cab pulled up, and Griffin paid the tab. The light flickered in the apartment, then another one on in living room. It looked like the TV. Griffin hoped he hadn’t drunk all the beer or hocked the refrigerator. Damn, he should've been home by now, kicking Han's butt out the door, and checking his electronic mail.

He stepped between two jeeps and headed for the door of the four-plex. He had just reached the two cottonwood trees that bordered the lot when a Ford roared out of the night. With a screech, it stopped in front of the apartment building, and a man jumped out. His arm went back, then forward, and a flaming object in his hand flew out, under the deck, and up against the apartments Then he threw another that look like a brick.

Griffin threw himself behind the tree. Something exploded, a fireball of heat that roared into the night. The apartment building went up in flames, and a crackling heat that rolled like a blanket over the street. The car roared off into the night.

Shaking his head, he got to his knees and looked back. The fire was burning out of every window, including the upper ones. Whatever the single quote "brick" had been, it had been more powerful than the bomb that preceded it.

The girls, he thought numbly They must be there, it's Tuesday night, isn't it, their night off? What about Hans? "Who cares about Hans?" he said out loud. "What about the girls?"

Neighbors were running out of their houses. One man stopped beside him. "Hey, you okay?" He helped Griffin to his feet, and over to the jeeps.

"I'm fine, thanks," Griffin said, hearing his voice shakier than he thought it would be. After all, this wasn't his first explosion.

"Did you see anything?" The man demanded excitedly, his attention drawn to the fire.

Griffin's instincts took over. He didn't want to have to explain anything more to the police. The man obviously didn’t recognize his neighbor in the shabby man leaning against the Jeep. "Didn't see a thing. I feel lousy."

"I'll get some help," said the Good Samaritan, and darted off into the growing crowd. New quote

Griffin waited until he was gone, then walked away from the mob of people, keeping his movements are casual. The fire engines roared up, firemen jumping down, and uncoiling hoses.

Now it's personal. I'm going back to Mexico and I'm going to whip their ass. He isn't going to get away with this. No way in hell!

***

The hotel was part of a cheap chain that meant the beds were hard, the sheets then, and the water pressure in the shower needed a good hard punch. At 11 PM, Frank Warren was just about to go to sleep having plumbed the depth of the lousy television shows, all of which were in Spanish. He wanted to go home.

The phone rang. Warren turn down the sound on the television and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Frank, Kermit Griffin's dead," Garrison said baldly. He sounded like he was calling from a car phone outside of battle from the sound of sirens behind him, in the yelling.

Warren's knuckles whitened on the receiver. "One more time, Jim, please."

“Someone just blew up his apartment. We talk to the neighbors. They said they heard a screeching noise, then something blew up. One man saw a derelict staggering away but by the time we got here, the guy was gone."

"And what about Griffin? Was he inside?"

"The fire department found the body in the ashes. It's his size and shape, but the autopsy just started. I won't have anything for a couple of hours."

"Where are you going to get his records, Jim? This guy was all bits and pieces in the files!"

"He has to have a dentist. I’ll find him. How long are you staying down there?"

"Probably a couple of days. Lazzaro's promised me Juanito on a platter."

"You think he can deliver? "

"Maybe, maybe not. You're coming down soon?"

"Yeah. As soon as I know about Griffin. Bye." 

"Bye." Warren set down the phone, and bit his lip. Garrison's news made no sense. Now what the hell was going on? It would be too much of a coincidence if this wasn't connected to those guns. It has to be because of the guns. Now, he's dead. Did he get too close to someone? 

Dom Pedro Salazair could have ordered the hit. Warren knew the gangs had reached into the United States. But why would Salazair kill Griffin unless it was over the guns? A loose end all wrapped up in flame. But how would Salazair known that Griffin was free? The only people that were Lazzaro, Warren, and Garrison.

"Someone at the police station must've tipped off Salazair," he muttered abstractly as his mind raced.

Lazzaro? Griffin had suggested that he was dirty, and now the mercenary was dead. Could the policeman be crooked? It would explain the incomplete files on Zavala. Lazzaro would have had time to clear them out. So could many of the others in small station. There was no proof.

Warren glanced out the windows again. The city glowed with light. He heard laughter.

"I guess I wait until I hear from Lazzaro," Warren said thoughtfully. "I wonder if he knows Griffin is dead."

***

Salazair pulled himself out of the swimming pool and picked up the towel on one of the chairs/ A light breeze blew through the tree leaves making the light shimmer. The occasional armed guard walked around the corner, then vanished into the shadows.

Louder footsteps. Don Pedro looked up at the man who came out onto the patio, and down the stairs towards the pool at a near-run.

Lazzaro held up his hands, showing they were empty. The bodyguard next to him step back out of earshot after Don Pedro’s signal.

"Well? What do you have to tell me?"

"Kermit Griffin is dead," Lazzaro reported. "I had Ruiz blow up his apartment." 

"You know he is dead?"

"The Americans found the body. I ordered Ruiz to wait and see if he was let go free at the airport. If he was, then to bomb him."

"Where did you get the address?"

"From the DEA," Lazzaro said with a huge grin. "It was in one of their files."

Salazair wiped himself dry, then tossed the towel away. "Good job. I will spread the word to his former colleagues that Dom Pedro Salazair took him out."

"You're not afraid that someone might want vengeance?" Navarro questioned.

"I don't believe that Mr. Griffin was important enough for a blood feud but there's no reason that we should be secretive. They are mercenaries. He lost, we won. He insulted me, and he lost," Salazair summed up.

"We have the glory, and the guns. He lost," Lazzaro agreed.

"What about the other thing?"

"The DEA agent? Warren?"

"Si." 

"I have set it up that he and Juan will meet tomorrow."

"And no one will be dead by then?"

"Warren will see him die," Lazzaro stated flatly. "If I brought in a corpse, he would not satisfy the Americans. They will keep after Zavala's killer –" 

"And Griffin?"

"Hah! I don't believe that Warren will care about that. You should've seen them together. Two cats in a small cage spitting at each other," Lazzaro said with a huge grin of appreciation. "By tomorrow night, the Americans will be satisfied and Juanito will be dead."

"The matter will be concluded," Salazair agreed. "It is a beautiful day, chief."

***

Griffin took a bus from Brownsville, sleeping most of the way. The night was at its darkest when he disembarked into the desert station in Mexico where derelicts slept outside the buildings. From the bus stop, he walked down the road. It would be safer to cross where the illegal immigrants did somewhere along the winding path of the Rio Grande.

Ten miles on, he was limping on blistered feet. Cottonwood trees boarded the river, along with prickly pine and other weeds, but with the drought conditions, the river was barely a trickle at the bottom of the canyon. Stepping into the shadows he walked on until he smelled exhaust. Probably the Border Patrol. They must have recently taken up their position.

Most of the Patrol was intent on keeping the illegal immigrants from crossing into the United States, not trying to keep people out of Mexico. Griffin had crossed illegally in the past, but they had obviously beefed up security since then. He wondered if they got around two putting in seismic sensors that would trip the patrol off that he was hit there. Well, he deal with that if it happened.

Leaving the road, he scrambled down into the broad shallow ravines where the Rio Grande was scarcely a foot deep. 

He crouched down behind a rock and waited. Ruefully, he looked down at his clothing. He looks like a homeless refugee. With a jolt he realized that he really was homeless. He would have to start his life again. Maybe he should just give up this fight; every sense revolted at the thought. Then he was distracted by flashlight on the other side of the rocky crossing.

It was a flashlight, roughly a mile away on the higher Mexican side, then went out.

Griffin waited. He heard the sound of footsteps, heavy panting, and a muffled protest in a female voice. The flashlight bobbed.

Illegal immigrants crossing the border led by a smuggler, a ‘coyote’ as they were called around here.

The headlights on the Border Patrol's van went on, illuminating the riverbed. The four people caught in the merciless light scampered for the hills. The fastest was the coyote. He slid into the shadows leaving the others to run straight into the arms of the two patrolmen who came out of nowhere. On the Mexican side, a pair of headlights lit the top of the hill, then went off. There was the sound of an engine driving away.

Griffin watched as the officers led three people up to their van. The woman looked heavily pregnant. From below him, he heard a scuffling sound, and saw a face turned towards him. He acted instinctively, lashing out, and the coyote collapsed into a heap, knocked unconscious. Moonlight glinted off of something in his hand. Griffin picked it up, one eyebrow going up. He tucked the gun into his belt, and crouched.

An agent climbed by him, scattering pebbles over his hair, and saw the groggy smuggler. He didn’t fight as the agent took him to the van. They drove away.

A half hour later and Griffin rose from the shadows. The Border Patrol had filled his quota at the spot. Other immigrants across this night would be rounded up at the local McDonald's or Kmart. It was a nightly ritual on the southern border

Griffin stealthily moved into Mexico. He dusted the sand off his shirt and pants, and began climbing. Land was steeper on that side of the river. It took some time to reach the road where the immigrants had been left to be taken across by the smuggler.

He sighed. It had been a long time since he trekked. If he didn't go now, he never make it into to civilization before sunrise. He needed some more sleep before he went back to Davina. 

Five hours later, he felt lousy. How did the old Englishman who taught him to use a machine gun put it? 'Bloody-minded. That was the way he felt with his bruised shoulders a massive headache, a growth of beard, covered with dirt and dust. At least the dark classes cut the glare. 

He had had a while to think of ways to kill Salazair and Juanito. Nothing as quick as a bullet in the back of their heads or in their hearts. Something that would last longer and be more painful. Hit the master in his pocket, and the boy in his pride. Griffin was well aware that it was partly his own pride that was injured. Having his friends and housing blown up, and his last shipment stolen, and another friend in danger, was the rest. His reputation for snappy dressing was already suffering; these clothes had been worn when he bought them, and now they were disreputable.

He reached a small town, barely a road stop, with a bus stop in a small store who signs promise drinks and cigarettes. An hour later, and after several beers, he climbed on a battered bus, paid for the ticket and claimed a seat in the back, next to the emergency exit. His appearance look so villainous that he was avoided by the other passengers.

A pair of girls got on the bus, their laughter and giddiness attracting his attention. With masses of dark hair and suntanned skin, the girls with the complete opposites of his late friends. He saw them sneak a couple of glances his way, and giggle. He remembered waltzing with Tina. Don Pedro would pay for that death: she had been too young to die for someone else's sin.

He missed them. Regret washed over him. He hadn’t run into unquestioning friendship very often. Anger and guilt. It was his fault that they died. He should've handled Salazair with more care, and made a deal, rather than walking in and dropping hints. What had happened to his self-control? All I want is revenge.

He removed his dark glasses, and put them in his breast pocket, shifted so he could lean against the window and fell into a doze that lasted until he had to change buses for his final destination of Davina.


	5. Chapter 5

Warren stepped out of the car with Lazzaro. Two other policemen who abandon the following car parked behind them. The old warehouse was a ancient warehouse not far from where the Mexicans had picked up Griffin after the street fight. Warren wondered if the mercenary had known something Warren didn't know about Juanito's whereabouts, or if it been simple luck that brought them together yesterday.

Funny how Griffin was haunting his mind. It wasn't his fault that the man was dead, but Warren felt more than a little responsible for his death. Garrison was still tracking down the bomber. The Texan had been angry this morning when Warren called him to tell them that Lazzaro had found Juanito, and that they were going to move in on him. The marshal had desperately wanted to be in on the capture.

"Are you sure Juan is here?" Warren asked, looking at the door.

Lazzaro nodded. "One of my informers said that this where he is staying here in Davina. A number of the men stay here every night and leave at daybreak. We should have no problem taking him."

"You have enough men?" Warren asked looking at the two men armed with submachine guns. "Should we wait for reinforcements? Garrison’s going to bust a gut if he missed this."

"For one teenager who is sick? We are four," Lazzaro said arrogantly, and slapped his hand on his gun. "My informant said that he is alone. We may not get this opportunity again, Agent Warren.”

Warren stared at the warehouse. "What's it like inside?"

"Two stories, but the upper floor is mostly abandoned. The workers sleep down below."

Warren could see broken edges of glass glinting in the hot sunlight from the shattered windows. "You've been inside?"

"Of course," Lazzaro replied. "I condemned it a year ago. Do not go upstairs; I will, if we have to. The second floor is dangerous."

Warren hesitated again. "I think we need more backup, Lazzaro."

"Are you afraid?" The chief asked mockingly.

"I don't need to be challenged. The boy’s a killer. He could have another gun."

Lazzaro slapped his chest. He was wearing body armor as was Warren. "This will keep us safe. We go. Now."

Warren shrugged, and hefted his pistol. "You lead the way. You have to do the arresting. It's your territory."

Lazzaro waved to the other two to wait for his call, then led the way. 

Warren saw a flash of light out of the corner of one eye, and risked a glance down the road. A brown car was driving by. He hoped it wasn't some kind of assistance for Juanito. Damn, he wished Garrison was here, or some of his people! Something was wrong here!

He held his gun ready as Lazzaro kicked in the door. With a swift swing, Warren left into the building yelling, “DEA!"

The word echoed through the decrepit building. In front of him was a vast expanse of warehouse, broken up by slabs a fallen concrete. Broken shipping boxes were strewn about the floor. Against one wall was a staircase that led upstairs.

Looking up, he saw the second floor had gaping holes in it where the concrete had decayed. You could see the tin roof. The place stank of humidity, urine and decay.

Warren's senses were on full alert. This didn't look like any place for any sane man would sleep. Then again, Juanito wasn't exactly sane.

Something scurried across the floor and behind one of the blocks. A fraction of a second later, he realized it was a rat, and his skin crawl. This smelled like a set up. He remembered Griffin's accusations about Lazzaro. Warren resisted the urge to look around him to assure himself that the chief wasn't pointing a submachine gun at his back.

The chief moved into his line of sight, holding his gun ready. The man look worried as he scanned both ways.

"So? Where is he?" Warren whispered, moving into the room. 

Lazzaro shook his head. "Upstairs?"

"You check it," Warren said through gritted teeth.

Lazzaro slid along the wall towards the staircase. He went up slowly, testing each step. They creaked under his weight.

Warren walked cautiously around a slab of concrete. Rusty supporting rods protruded from the crumbling cement making it hazardous. Dust coded his shoes as he walked.

A creak from upstairs made him crouch, ready to shoot. Nothing. Probably it was Lazzaro upstairs checking for Juanito.

The informant had been wrong, he had to have been wrong. Even Juanito couldn't live here. Whoever had been using it for urinal wouldn't live here. 

Pausing by one of the boxes, he checked the markings. These empty shipping boxes had been marked for Trinidad. Griffin's missing shipment? Where were the guns? He remembered they were submachine guns, and that Lazzaro was carrying a submachine gun, as were the other two policemen. Maybe the guns have gone no further than the hands of local cops?

A loud creaking came from the far end of the warehouse. Warren spun around, his gun ready to fire. He took three steps forward to where he could clearly see the other end of the building.

A door was swinging on its hinges but no one was there. Whoever it had been must've gone out.

Warren cursed, lowered his weapon, and headed for the door.

The only warning he got was a flicker of shadow when Juanito spring out at the pile of boxes, and swung a long board full of nails. Warren raised his arm to protect his head, and the board hit his shoulder and the back of his vest, ripping flesh and fabric. In agony, the agent landed on the concrete with a hard thud that raised a cloud of dust.

The world was suddenly filled with white powder and red acid pain. Another blow landed on his side, and he felt the rusty nails bite into him and rip upwards. His leg went numb.

Blood flowed down his arm and onto his hand. His empty hand.

Juanito laughed as he tossed the board aside, and picked up the gun. "Mr. DEA! Come to take me back to the United States?"

“That's right, Juanito, so put down the gun, and no one will get hurt," Warren said, knowing it was useless. He felt ridiculous. Juanito's face held nothing but eager anticipation of killing him. The boy aimed directly at Warren's head. Where the hell was Lazzaro?

"I killed the other one, you know,” Juanito proclaimed mockingly. "Zavala."

"I know. I figured it out. Did Salazair order it?" Warren asked, trying to move his leg. This time he could feel the pain as the muscles move. He stopped immediately. "

"Of course not. He was angry with me."

"How about the guns?" Warren felt an obscure need to know if Griffin had been honest with him. Strangely, it was important to him right now when he was about to die.

Juanito snorted. "The guns are so easy to steal. That stupid man who came after me, I hear he is dead now."

"Did Don Pedro order that one?" Warren questioned, buying time.

"Does it matter to you who did?” Juanito asked mockingly. 

"Yeah. It's a loose end."

"I don’t know who ordered it," the boy said with a cold laugh. "I don’t care. Now, it's your turn, Mr. DEA." Juanito wiggled slightly in excitement, and centered the gun so that the bullet would hit Warren in the throat above the vest. The agent paled but he didn't move, just stared defiantly at the boy.

"Hold it, stock boy!" A grubby man stepped out from behind a slab of concrete, holding a gun aimed at Juanito. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. "Put it down, Juan."

Juanito's face went white. He frantically looked out of the corner of his eye at the man who was holding his heavy gun any rock steady grip. He began to shake."Mierda…"

"Griffin?" Warren said in disbelief.

"Put the gun down!" Griffin snarled. He shoved the muzzle of the gun against the boys neck. "Give it back to the nice agent."

Warren grinned for second. Nice agent? Maybe in comparison with Garrison. "What the hell are you doing here, Griffin? Why aren’t you dead?"

"Want me to vanish?" Griffin retorted. "I want my guns!"

Juanito cringed away from the muzzle. He lowered his hands until he could lay the gun down on the concrete.

Warren struggled to his knees, feeling the blood flowing from his wounded shoulder and the ribs in his legs. He took the pistol from Juan's hand.

The boy was limp and scared. It was a long way from the cocky youngster of a minute before.

"You'd better call for help," Griffin snapped. 

"Help? Christ, my backup is –" Warren knew he was running slowly when took a second for that penetrate. "Lazzaro! If he's a crook –"

"Oh, great," Griffin said sarcastically. "He's probably the one who helped steal the guns for Salazair! Didn't he, Juan?"

"Si," the boy whispered.

From above, the crackle of a submachine gun filled the air. The bullets hit Juan and he crumpled like used Kleenex, half his chest blown away by bullets. His blood splashed over Warren. The agent felt one of the bullets graze his vest, and he dropped to the ground, playing dead. Griffin dived behind the box where Juanito had been hidden. Bullet perforated but Griffin had already rolled behind a chunk of concrete to where it was safer.

Warren didn't have the strength to do anything but pray. He was out in the open with nothing to shield him but the vest. With any luck, Lazzaro would think he was dead.

Which he would be when Lazzaro came downstairs to investigate. Warren's mind was suddenly clear, and he saw how it was going to play out. Juanito would have killed him, and Lazzaro killed the boy. The US might be suspicious but there were no loose ends.

There was a loose end though and Warren didn’t count it out. What was Griffin going to do? 

For the second time in three minutes, Warren reconciled himself to dying. It was less acceptable this time.

Sound of creaking. The floor above them groaned. Lazzaro moving closer? Warren rolled his eyes towards the ceiling but saw nothing. He couldn't see the staircase from his position.

Griffin suddenly rolled out from behind the concrete slab, fired upward through one of the holes. It chipped the ragged edge, and then with a crack, a concrete slab crashed out of the ceiling. Lazzaro was standing on the edge of the hole, waving his arms in the air as the floor crumpled under his feet. Finally, he fell through, landing awkwardly on his right side amid more falling bits of concrete. A cloud of dust went up, choking everyone.

Warren flinched, and felt the red washing pain go over him. Tears ran out of his eyes making lines in the mask of dust. 

Griffin held up his gun. "Put your hands up, Chief. Don't make me kill you."

"Jesus, don't shoot him, Griffin!" Warren said urgently. "He's a policeman!"

"So what? He's a crook! Get those hands up!"

Lazzaro got to his knees, shaking his head. The machinegun was a foot away. He reach for it, then stopped. Griffin’s words finally had penetrated.

Griffin shook his head meaningfully. "Touch it in your dead man. That's one of my guns. I know how well they work."

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and the two policemen came in.

Griffin's lips went back, showing his teeth in a dangerous grin, and he fired over Lazzaro's head, at the ceiling near the door. The bullets hit an unstable piece of concrete. Dust and debris began to drop all around the room, and fearfully, the two policemen jumped back against the wall.

Lazzaro dropped flat on his face and covered his head. He inched forward towards the gun.

Griffin took a couple of steps and hit him hard with the muzzle of the gun.

Warren stared in horror at the unconscious man. "What the hell are you doing, Griffin?"

"Shut up. We’re leaving," Griffin said backing up to him. He slid his arm under Warren's, and lifted.

"You just hit a cop!" Warren replied, realizing a second later that his statement was irrational.

"A crooked cop and we want him to hang, Griffin retorted. "Which means keeping you alive to file a report. Now move it, or I'm going to walk away and leave you here!"

Warren leaned heavily on the man and was amazed at strength in Griffins thin body. He might be smaller than the agent but he was a strong man. "Let's go."

They staggered through the dust to the back door. Warren saw a brown sedan parked outside. So, it had been Griffin he had seen driving around the corner just before the raid.

Griffin let off another round, making the following policeman duck, and shoved Warren out the door. The agent staggered to the front of the car. He was soaked in blood from his shoulder all the way down to his socks.

Warren knew he was going into shock. He was shaking, and had cold sweats. The hot hood of the sedan barely warmed his fingers when he landed on it. His vision was swimming in and out of focus. All he wanted to do was collapse.

Griffin slammed shut the warehouse door, and rolled a barrel in front of it.

Opening the passenger side door, he pushed Warren inside, and closed it. He scampered around the car and climbed in. Griffin gunned it, sending Warren back against the worn seats.

"Put on your seatbelt," Griffin commanded.. Behind him, the policeman broke down the door, and started shooting. 

"You first," Warren replied his voice week. In the rear view mirror, he saw a policeman lift the radio to his mouth. "They're going to chase you, Griffin. They're calling ahead."

"Don't worry. How you doing?"

Warren avoided the question. It hurt too much to think of. "This your car?"

"Yeah. Hold on." The car hit a record path across the desert that was the shortest path to the other main road leading into Davina. "How do you feel?" he asked again, his tone concerned.

Warren shifted slightly and stifled a grunt of pain. His arm and his leg had both gone numb. "Like I've been stabbed with a fork."

"A lot of rusty forks. Have you had a tetanus shot lately?" 

"I think so." He saw Griffin glance at him, and frown. The mercenary looked worried.

"I hope you're right. You're lucky, Warren."

"Lucky?"

Griffin nodded. “He could have taken off your head before I reached you. The kid had a taste for melodrama. Too many television shows."

"Spoken like a true mercenary," Warren muttered. "I suppose you just kill your opponent."

"We're a practical lot."

"Then why didn't you let them kill me?"

Griffin didn't reply. His face was expressionless. 

"Why not, Griffin?" Warren persistent.

"I need you alive, Warren. Your people have to know that it was Salazair who stole the guns. I want that scumbag behind bars or underground. That's why you're alive," Griffin said. "You serve a purpose."

Warren rolled his head and stared out the window. "A fine rationalization, Griffin. I'm sure you could find a dozen other excuses." He reached for the seatbelt, and felt a new wave of pain from his shoulder. He persisted until he had the metal tongue in his hand, with one quick jerk brought it down to the buckle. 

He fumbled to get it to click in.

Griffin's right hand came down and helped. The seatbelt went taut and more insistent pain. A tear rolled down Warren’s cheek.

"Lie back. It's going to be a rocky ride."

Warren chuckled, let his head sink back against the headrest. "Softy."

Griffin shook his head, and pressed down on the gas. "Don't believe it. My reputation is on the line here. If people think they can get away with bombing my apartment or stealing my guns, I'm sunk. Salazair is probably posting that my scalp is on his wall right now." 

"All this for reputation?"

"What do you think a mercenary lives on?" Griffin inquired. "Small change from arms sales? How did Iago put it in Othello? 'He that touches from me my good name, robs me of that which not only enriches him, it makes me poor indeed.' Reputation is as powerful a tool as a gun."

Warren stared at him. His sight was blurry. Griffin appeared as a pirate with wild hair. "Shakespeare? What kind of the mercenary quotes Shakespeare during a getaway? What kind of man are you?"

Griffin didn't reply for second then shrugged casually. "I went to a good school. I read the classics." He changed the subject. "What are you planning to do about Lazzaro? He's worse than Salazair." 

“Report him."

"To the Federales and tell them their cop in Davina is as crooked as a close hanger?"

"Get real," Warren said weakly. He hunched in his seat, try not to let his wounded arm or leg hit the car door. It was futile as the car rocked in and out of potholes. "I don't have enough proof to bring down Salazair. We need an informant who will testify."

Griffin frowned for second "Informant? Juanito's dead. Were you planning to use Lazzaro?" 

"If we can extradite him or get permission to bring him to the States, and if he talks –"

"When he talks, you have Salazair. I still don't have my guns."

"You want him – dead? Let us take the man, then let him go." Warren gave an ugly chuckle that ended in a gasp of pain as he moved his leg. "How long do you think Salazair will let him live?"

Griffin laughed. "He's taco meat as soon as he crosses the border."

"I'll get him one way or the other. I’ll pressure the Mexican authorities to the corruption in the Davina area. It may be old news to them."

"He tried to kill me," Griffin said. His voice was matter of facts. "He killed an acquaintance and a couple friends. The Chief or Salazair is going down."

"If you kill Lazzaro, Griffin, I'll bring you in myself," Warren replied quietly. He watched Griffin's face, seeing the lips tense. Then the mercenary gave a slight shrug.

"How are you going to do that, Agent Warren? You don't seem to be at your best."

"Nervous that I’m going to die, Griffin?"

"I've gone to a lot of effort to save your skin. I'd rather not leave it to bake in the desert." Griffin twisted the wheel, and with one large agonizing bump, the sedan turned on to a paved, if potholed road. "This is the other main drag. Let's hope that that the Davina police don't have helicopters."

"I didn't see any," Warren said weakly, letting himself slumped against the door. God, that hurt.

"They’ll be after us as soon as they can," Griffin replied, pressing on the gas. "Set up roadblocks."

"Where you going now?" Warren asked, on the edge of unconsciousness. 

"They expect us to go to the Brownsville crossing. I’ve got another way," Griffin replied.

"Oh, great." Warren passed out. 

***

Hours later, Griffin pulled in beside a Pemex gas station. The road had been mostly deserted, with only a truck or two passing them at intervals. The absence of pursuit made Griffin nervous. He got out, and scanned the station.

Nothing. Crickets sag loudly.

Six pumps gleaned under the lit sign. The attendant drowsed on a chair in front of the building. To one side, a telephone sat under a street light. Griffin finished pumping the gas, and hung the nozzle.

Walking past the passenger side, he looked at Warren. The man was deathly white except where blood had dried on his face and hands. His face was creased with pain as he slept, in his breathing was uneasy.

Damn, he didn't want Warren to die. The man was a good guy. He didn't deserve this kind of treatment and pain

Griffin took out his wallet and headed for the attendant who looked up sleepily. After paying for the gas, he bought a couple of cans of Coke. He brought them to the car and slid one down beside Warren, then opened his own. For a moment, he leaned on the roof and enjoyed the cold liquid.

Finally, he pulled a square paper out of his pocket and went over to the telephone. After feeding it coins, he punched in the telephone number on the oblong business card.

The phone rang five times before anyone picked up. "Five, four, three, nine. Hello?”

"I need to speak to Garrison."

"Who is this?" She asked curiously.

"Griffin. Get Garrison."

"Hold on." A pause, then Garrison drawled suspiciously into line, "Who is this?" 

"Kermit Griffin." 

"Sorry, son, that won't fly."

"Give me a break, Garrison, I'm not dead. Your forensic guys must know that by now," Griffin said. "Listen up."

"My God, you are alive!" From his tone Garrison was astonished. 

"I've got to get Warren –"

“Warren!"

"You people interrupt too much. We got caught in a shoot out and he's wounded.”

"How's he wounded?"

"Got in front of the board filled with rusty nails, and he looks lousy. Garrison, we’re probably being chased by Chief Lazzaro. Have you heard anything?"

"Lazzaro!"

"Yeah, he's as crooked as the Rio Grande."

"I hadn't heard a word from down there. I was going to call Warren in an hour or so," Garrison replied. "How bad is he?"

"I hope he had multiple tetanus shots. I'm sure Lazzaro would have presented the right story about this death in due time along with the body," Griffin said callously.

"Griffin –"

"Got to go. Call you tonight, I hope." Griffin hung up before Garrison could say anything else. He walked back to the car, took a long look around at the crazy empty landscape, studded with dead trees and cactus, then drove away.

Warren stirred as the car slowed. He listened to the sound of Griffin paying for the gas, then the car started up again. He went back into a doze for some time before opening his eyes, and blinking.

The highway stretched into the twisty mountains. It was the dark just after sunset. Buzzards and owls hunted over the deserted landscape. Creosote bushes dotted the desert on each side, and every now and then, a yucca plant look like an exotic sentry.

From the grip on the steering wheel, Warren would say that Griffin thought they were probably Mexican policeman hiding behind each flower.

Warren shifted his position and found it hadn't hurt as much as he thought it would. In fact, he wasn't feeling that much pain at all. He was mostly numb. This wasn't good. From the feeling, he had lost a lot of blood and was still in shock.

He looked down. A bad move. His vision slammed giddily. He grunted and saw the man glanced at him.

"It's a Coke," Griffin said. "Picked it up at the gas stop."

Warren reached forward and found that was a very bad move. Agony shot out of his side. He gasped in pain and slumped back.

"Here," Griffin held out his open can. "Not much left and it's warm."

"Thanks. Where are we?"

"Heading for a crossing I know.”

Warren shipped on the soda, then looked around. "Looks deserted."

"Unfortunately, I have a bad feeling about this," Griffin muttered. "We haven't been bothered all the way up."

"Maybe Lazzaro figured that we weren't worth chasing."

"Maybe Lazzaro figured out where we were headed, and has an ambush, " Griffin said callously. 

"You’re… wrong," Warren muttered. "I hope."

"Staying alive is my business, Warren, and I don't underestimate desperate men" Griffin replied. "I don't have the federal government to haul my ashes out of the fire."

Warren flushed. "You made a… charming lifestyle choice."

"Not really, but it's all mine." They were winding through the hills around the city when Griffin suddenly pulled over and shut down the engine. "Listen."

"To what?" He heard a coyote howling, and the sound of birds flapping in the deepening darkness overhead. Jackrabbits scampered across the road, a ghostly shadow. The temperature had plummeted. "What?" Warren asked softly. "What is it?"

"See that light?" Griffin whispered. He pointed to where the curve of the road blocked their view.

"It's a streetlight or a city."

"Too low to the ground for the first and not enough light for the second."

"Ambush?"

Griffin shot him a crooked smile. "We going to take a chance? We’ll never make the crossing if we hit their ambush. They had all day to set it up. The police have probably been warned."

Warren nodded and regretted his motion. His head swam. "You want to check it out?"

Griffin glanced at him. "You want to lose the time?"

"Your call, merc."

"Oh, yeah," trip Griffin drawled sarcastically. "Stay here, Warren."

The agent chuckled. "Where would I be going?"

He watched Griffin slide into the shadows that bordered the road, another shade in the darkness. The blur of white that was his face showed for a second, then was gone.

He does that real well, Warren thought. Must be the years of experience. I hope he makes it back.

It wasn't long, maybe ten minutes, for Griffin came running back. He was panting as he jumped into the car. The engine roared to life and he gunned it in reverse.

Warren was jolted out of sleep. He had been drowsing in a haze of pain.

"Ambush," Griffin confirmed grimly.

"They saw you?"

"They were waiting for the car. By the time I got there, they realized something was wrong. They’re heading for us."

Warren saw several high beams shoot around the corner. "Can they be sure it's us?"

The brown car wove a deep path through the canyons, the pursuers not far behind. Griffin drove like a madman, barely making some of the turns as the canyon walls narrowed. A cloud of dust mark the route as well as providing cover from their pursuers. Coming out into a more level stretch, Griffin flicked on, then off, his headlights.

Warren's heart was in his throat. "What's the plan?"

Griffin smiled. "Ever been an illegal?"

"Hell, no!"

"Tonight, welcome to the life on the edge!" Griffin laughed, and hit the accelerator. The car bounced and landed on the river’s edge.

"You're crazy!" Warren blurted out, his left hand going out to brace himself against the dashboard. 

Griffin's car tore through the shallow river of the Rio Grande and up the opposing bank.

The pursuers’ headlights shot through the back window. 

Ahead of them, a pair of headlights went on. 

"The Border Patrol” Warren blurted out.

“Yep. This is a regular place for the illegals to cross,” Griffin grunted, as he fought the wheel. The sedan wasn't made for this. "Hold on, Warren!"

The car lurched and fought in the rocky soil, as Griffin made it climb the hill.

Behind them, they heard a car come to a screeching halt, and another hit it with a loud pop. Looking in the broken site mirror, Warren saw one of the Mexican police cars had hit another one which was now nose down in the river. A neighboring cottonwood tree was a casualty, the leaves dangling in the water.

The brown sedan came to an abrupt stop when Griffin hit a large stone, and the front crumpled. The sudden stop sent Warren into a haze of agony. Through blurred vision, he saw Griffin holding up his hands is a couple of Border patrolmen came down, holding their guns ready.

"Take it easy, take it easy," Griffin called, soothingly. "I'm an American!"

"What the hell was that show, buddy?" One of the patrolmen asked. "Are those guys chasing you?"

"With any luck they'll follow us over here," Griffin said hopefully.

"I doubt it," Warren muttered.

"Get out of there, and get your hands on top of that car!" the patrolman snarled. 

The other looked in the window on Warren's side. He saw a man's blood and pallor, and saw the bulletproof vest. "Christ! Who are you?"

"I work for the DEA," Warren said weakly. 

The man looked at his friend in disbelief. "He says he works for the DEA!"

Griffin glanced over his shoulder at the two Mexican police cars. The officers had gotten out to survey the damage. One man had a pair of binoculars and was watching them. "Lazzaro's over there, Warren! He'll disappear down into Mexico if you don't get your act together."

"You got any identification?" The patrolman asked suspiciously. "I think you're just a pair of smugglers."

"It's in my breast pocket," Warren said aloud. "Griffin, I can't move." 

Griffin glanced at the patrolman. "You'll have to get it yourself, mister. I can't do it." The officer glanced at Bo, then reached gingerly over the broken window glass. He fumbled in the breast pocket of Warren's jacket until he found the identification. "Christ, you are DEA!" "

"We'll get Lazzaro later, Griffin," Warren said weakly. 

"He's right over there!" Griffin seethed. Across the river in a foreign land. He might as well be on another planet. "No. He just put down his binoculars. Dammit, Warren!"

On the night air, they heard laughter. Lazzaro was laughing at them both.

"Next time, Griffin. Next time," Warren said wearily, closing his eyes. “Tell Garrison everything.” 

"You guys going to stay in there forever?" The patrolman broke in. His face showed worry. "I'll call an ambulance for you, Agent Warren."

Griffin ordered "Get in touch with US Marshal Jim Garrison. He should be at this number.”

 

***

Griffin stood back from the crowd as Warren was loaded into the medevac helicopter. The patrolmen had been gentle as they helped him carry the wounded man up the hill. Warren passed out from the pain. His wounds were oozing blood again. Griffin hope the man would make it to the hospital.

Garrison had been as fast as Griffin expected him to be. The pilot said he was on his way out, and it wasn't five minutes after the helicopter took off, that a cavalcade of police cars, with red and blue lights flashing, came driving up.

"Looks like your buddies are here,” Bo said, taking out his cigarettes. He offered the pack to Griffin who took one and accepted a light.

"My ride at least," Griffin remarked. Gratefully, he sucked in the smoke.

"Sounds like you're looking forward to see them seeing them," the patrolman peered at him in curiosity.

"Jim Garrison is a red-blooded Texan. Don't need to say more," Griffin said dryly.

Bo chuckled. "Yee-haw!" 

"Oh, yeah."

The first car disgorged Garrison and his hat. Other officers came out of the other three cars, specialists from their uniforms and equipment. They stared at Griffin, then at Garrison who pointed to the brown car, not taking his gaze off the man who sucked on his cigarette and waited.

"Like to tell me what happened here, Griffin?" Garrison finally asked

"Wrecked my car," Griffin replied. He wasn't afraid of Garrison anymore. The Texan was small potatoes compared with what was waiting for him once he got free. Umbagi was still there as was the threat to Minette. He had Lazzaro laughing at him, and Salazair ordering bombing runs. The whole situation sucked.

"Wrecked my friend Warren too," Garrison said seriously. He looked around. "He should be at the hospital now."

"Hope he makes it."

"I hope so," Garrison replied in a tone laden with ominous meaning. His gaze met Griffin's sunglass barricade and bounced off. "Need a ride into Brownsville?"

"I won't turn you down," Griffin agreed, and dropped his butt, grinding it into the dirt. He held out his hand to Bo. "Watch yourself out here. It's dangerous."

"Yeah. You watch out too," Bo replied, curiosity written all over his face.

Garrison back into one of the specialists. "I'm heading back into town. When we have a report from me?"

"Preliminary, probably by 7 AM," she replied. "We'll do what we can."

"Right. You know where to reach me." He glanced at Griffin who had his hand on the passenger's handle. "Get in."

"It's locked," Griffin said sweetly.

Garrison got inside, and unlock the door, then fastened his seatbelt. Griffin follow suit, settling into the cool comfort of plush interior. He left out an unconscious sigh of relaxation. He took off his glasses and closed his eyes. 

"So, tell me what happened," Garrison asked, driving down the road towards the glow in the sky. He clicked on a tape recorder, and put on the dashboard.

Griffin explained everything that happened since he left the marshal the day before. "Lazzaro's your man, Garrison, if you can get him."

"You're willing to make a sworn statement about this?" Garrison asked.

Griffin felt a flash of anger. Wasn't it enough that he was telling him now? "I can't have it on record that I give the information to the police."

"Why not? Who do you think will know?"

"Your security leaks like a watering pot, Garrison. I can get any report out of your computers in a couple of days," Griffin said baldly. 

"I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want. I'm not making a report. You're going to have to get it from Warren."

"Warren might die," the marshal said soberly. "Then we got nothing."

"I'm dead already. You can't get information from a dead man," Griffin snapped back. "I got blown up, remember?"

Garrison glanced at him. "That's right. What do you plan to do now, Griffin? You're a dead man. Your accounts, your life is frozen."

"Unfreeze them."

"Give me a sworn statement and I will. I can keep you dead, Griffin, forever." His voice sounded like he knew infinite ways to accomplish his threat. Death wasn't the only possibility. 

"Unseal my accounts. I got Warren back alive."

"Only if he stays that way," Garrison snapped back. "This can go either way, if I wanted it to. Give me the statement. I'll give you back your life."

Griffin glared at him.

"Besides," Garrison continued, "do you want Lazzaro to escape?"

"I never wanted to be involved in your matters," Griffin snapped back. 

"Your name will be on the file,” Garrison promised, "only as an anonymous informant. I'll give you a number. You'll be protected."

Griffin shook his head. "Garrison, that won't work!

"You and me. Warren. We’re the only ones will no wit is."

"No. You and me. Leave Warren out of it. He’s suffered enough," Griffin said grimly.

"Afraid he'll call you up and thank you?" Garrison asked insightfully. Griffin glared at him. "I'll get this tape transcribed, and you can sign it in the morning. Then I'll bring you back to life."

"Your word on it?"

"My word as marshal," Garrison swore. "I'll put you up in a hotel tonight, and come and get you in the morning. Don’t run out on me or Warren."

Griffin gazed at the people on the street. They didn't even look at him as he passed. "Where's the hotel?"

Garrison grinned broadly, triumph showing on his face. "Over near the station. I'll take you there now."

They were silent the rest of the way. Garrison pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn, and parked. A large tourist bus drove up behind him. 

Griffin staggered as he followed Garrison in, and sank down in a chair. He closed his eyes momentarily, acting more exhausted than he really was. He watched through slitted eyelids as Garrison turned back to the desk.

The room was suddenly filled with chattering Asian tourists as the passengers disembarked from the bus. They flowed between Griffin and Garrison, and Griffin took the opportunity to duck lower and move towards the hallway.

In the reflection of the glass of an indoor shop, he saw Garrison look around, suspiciously, then frantic, fighting his way towards the front door.

Griffin waited until Garrison was outside, then slid down the corridor, around a curve, then another, to an exit where he was mostly hidden from the front driveway. He slipped out the door, then ran around the corner, where he had spotted a city bus stop. His luck held. The bus was loading its last passenger.

He swung up and handed the driver of a bill, then sat down on the opposite side away from the hotel. Out the back window, as they drove past, he saw Garrison staring around, and muttering something that was probably obscene. Griffin saw the woman across the aisle eyeing him doubtfully, then dropped her gaze.

He looked at his hands. With dirt under the nails, and stained with Warren’s blood, they looked like they belong to an escaped convict who had killed someone. No wonder she was edging away.

The bus trundled into the outskirts of the city, and Griffin debarked when he saw the first car lot. It was an all-night shop, with bright lights that shone off shiny hoods and the signs showing their prices.

After a few seconds of haggling with the salesman, Griffin drove off the lot with a Ford Taurus. He paid full price so he didn't have to fill out paperwork. The salesman would probably be on the phone to the cops before you reach the darkness of the desert.


	6. Chapter 6

The hot sun shining through the windshield turn the station wagon into a heated coffin, despite the half-opened windows. Griffin roused from his sleep. Around him were tall pine trees and a deserted Park station, found an hour before daybreak. Dry grasses waved in the morning breeze

He felt sticky and stale. He staggered out of the car to the restroom and was startled to find it open and reasonably clean. On the top of the toilet were ripped pieces of yellow telephone book pages. There has to be a phone nearby, he thought using the facility. The spigot over the sink didn't work. Going outside, he went over to the water fountain and moistened his hands, disturbing the stains. He wiped his hands on his pants then cupping his hands again splashed water on his face.

He poured a handful on his head and felt it trickle through his long hair. It felt good. It took several long sips, then he straightened up. His back muscles hurt from sleeping in the car.

Looking around, he saw the craggy mountains and prickly cactus with their yellow flowers that he would always associate with South Texas. Above him flew eagles and hawks while road runners darted across the road. The car was already worse for wear.

He sat down on the limestone boulder in the shade of a dead plane, and fought. What were his options? What was the situation?

He, Griffin, was dead as far as anyone knew outside of Garrison. 

Over the years he'd stashed money in a number of accounts under different names, mostly to amuse himself, but the majority was under his real name. He would be broken a month with the cost of setting up a new life

Revenge was best served cold, and this one would have an arctic chill before he had the ability to carry out his threats. What was he going to do? 

Garrison was out for blood. He’d would do whatever was necessary to bring him in. He thought that Griffin had made a promise. Maybe Griffin had without saying it. He’d deal with that later.

Lazzaro had laughed at him. Lazzaro had his guns. He was going to kill Lazzaro. 

Salazair would probably try and kill him if he found Griffin was alive whether or not he gave a statement to Garrison. They can afford to hire the best of his ex-friends to hunt him down as well.

What about Minette? What could he do for her?

Griffin sighed. 

He remembered thinking that night in the car park before he first crossed the border, that he was sick and tired of the mercenary life. Well, that was still true. He wanted a life where he could have friends, see his sister, and trust people; that was unlikely with the rest of the world out to kill him.

"Checkmate," he muttered. "There is only one man who can save my ass right now."

He went to the telephone. It was covered with the same layer of dirt as the water fountain.

Fumbling in his pocket for coins, he saw where the phonebook had been ripped off the court. He put the coins in and dialed the operator. "I want to place a collect call."

"To what number, sir?"

He rattled off a long memorized, never used numbers from the recesses of his memory.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Griffin."

"Thank you. Please hold." The telephone hummed, then rang.

"Blaisdell residence," a woman's voice said.

"I have a collect call from a Mr. Griffin. Will you accept the charges?"

Christ, let it be Annie, not one of the girls, Griffin thought desperately. He didn't recognize the voice. 

"Of course we will.” 

"Thank you. Here's your number, sir," the operator concluded and the sound of the phone changed after she left. 

"Annie, is Paul there?” Griffin asked. "Please."

"Let me get him, Kermit, hold on." He heard her put down the phone and call Blaisdell's name. 

Griffin hadn't realized how desperate he felt until he was waiting for two minutes. The need for a change overwhelmed him.

"Paul Blaisdell," came a deeply suspicious voice. 

"Paul, this is Griffin. I need help."

There was a moment of pause. "Meet me at the cabin.”

Griffin nodded forgetting that Blaisdell couldn't see him. "Four days. Maybe five. Or six."

"I'll be there. Do you need cash?"

"I think I can make it."

"I'll be there."

"Paul, if I'm not there, I'm dead."

"Heard you were that already," Blaisdell said placidly. 

"What?"

"The word drifted around. Someone crowing. See you in four days."

Griffin hung up and retrieved his coins. If Blaisdell thought he was dead, then the obituary was spreading through the mercenary circles. "It's time to get out of the business."

 

That evening he stopped at a cheap motel. From the look the owner gave him, Griffin knew he had to do something about his dress. Unless he wanted to be taken up and questioned by the local cops, you'd better get a change right away. He headed for the heart of town, a strip of fast food restaurants and Laundromats, and where the local entertainment was two theaters and a pool hall.

Passing a thrift shop, he stopped and stared at the magazine in the window. An old life magazine proclaimed that JFK was the best. What caught his attention was the anonymous look of the Secret Service agents behind the president, with a short cropped hair and blue suits. Everyone was an anonymous clone.

His own reflection appalled him. He look like a drug dealer who had had a bad day. No wonder people were staring at him, and avoiding him on the street

Acting on sudden impulse, he went inside the thrift shop, bought the magazine and some clothes. He headed for the barber shop.

***

Blaisdell relaxed in his leather armchair with a book on fishing in his hands and a lit lamp beside him. The cabin was cozy with wood paneling and a crocheted afghan over the back of the sofa. It was a snug refuge.

A car sputtering up the path outside made him close the volume. He laid it on top of several others. Walking over to the door, he glanced over out the window, smiled, and opened the door. 

The car's engine died as the driver switched it off. Blaisdell raised his eyebrows. Not only was the car an antique Corvair, it was rusted all along the bottom and needed new tires from the worn tread. It was also the ugly shade of plum the police chief had ever seen.

A man got out, slammed the door and walked towards him. For a second, Blaisdell didn't recognize Griffin. A neat haircut had trimmed the sides but left him with long dark hair on top. He wore a white shirt, blue tie, and an ancient blue suit. He looked like a refugee from the 1963. Only the glasses were familiar.

"Nice to see you again."

Griffin pulled off his sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket. "I'm happy to be here."

"If you came in that car, I'm not surprised you're late."

"Only by a day. I had to cover my tracks. This is my fourth car in five days. I had to use my private accounts."

Blaisdell refrained from comment, just held open the door. "Come inside."

Griffin headed for the couch. He sank down on it rubbing his face.

"Want some coffee?"

"I'd like some, yes," Griffin replied looking up.

Blaisdell poured from the pot, refilled his own cup, then came over. "Here."

Griffin took a long sip, then put it down on the coffee table. He was shaking from exhaustion. 

"So, what can I do for you?" Blaisdell questioned, sitting in his armchair. 

"Paul." Restlessly, Griffin rose and went over to the fireplace. He stared at the pictures of the Blaisdell family on the mantelpiece. Besides the two girls and Annie, there was a sulky teenage boy. Who was he? Griffin have to ask Paul later. "I want out."

"Out? Out of what?"

"I want to do what you did. I have to do what you did."

"Ah. Retirement. I thought you weren't interested in that."

"That was years ago. I've gotten older since then." Griffin's grin faded under Blaisdell’s judging eyes. 

"Who are you running from, Kermit? You never ran before."

Griffin sat down on the sofa. "I have a federal marshal on my tail, the DEA, a Mexican drug dealer and his lackey who's a police chief in Davina, Umbagi in the Central African Republic who thinks I cheated him out of a gun shipment, and, if you heard I was dead, then the word’s out in mercenary circles of my failure. My main bank account is frozen. All I got is what I’m wearing and a dollar fifty in change."

Blaisdell whistled. "You really dug yourself into it, haven't you?"

"Yes."

The silence in the room lasted for nearly a minute. Finally, Blaisdell put down his cup and went over to the fireplace. He lit the wood and paper, and tossed the match into the flames. Poking the fire until it burned brightly, he replaced the poker, and walked back to where Griffin was slumped on the couch. He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder reassuringly. "Is that all of it?"

Griffin shrugged. "Umbagi threatened my contact in Paris. Remember Minette? I want to make sure she doesn't end up as dead as the two innocent girls who rented the apartment above me in Brownsville.”

"I'll make sure no one touches Minette, and will cope with Umbagi," Blaisdell said calmly. "I can handle that. Let me make you an offer."

"What kind?" Despite his exhaustion, Griffin felt a touch of hope. Blaisdell would pull his coals out of the fire. The price would be high but Griffin would pay anything.

Blaisdell picked up a book and waited in his hand. "I'll make a space for you at the 101st. Pull a couple of strings, create a background, you know what I mean. I need a good computer man, and you’re the best I ever had."

Relief washed over Griffin's face. "Paul –"

"But, and it's a big but, Kermit, I have to know that you’ve left the trade for good. No turning back. No secret work on the side unless I authorize it. You come in as a cop and you live by the law of the land."

Griffin stared at him. "I – it's going to be a little difficult with the federal marshal on my tail, Paul."

"Well, we will just have to get him off your tail, and find a way to reestablish you among the living, but those are the rules, Kermit." Blaisdell studied the man he knew so well. How many years had it been? Twenty or so? Griffin had never known how to be absolutely sure of his friends, and so never chose to stay with any. Blaisdell was glad he was considered a friend. He might be the only one Griffin could count on. 

Griffin spread his hands in the air. "What do I do?"

Lansdale tossed him the book. "Read this. Memorize this." 

"Police procedure," Griffin read aloud.

"Basic text at the Police Academy. I've got the others here for you to read." Blaisdell tapped on the books by the lamp. "You have to be able to answer any question your partners ask you."

"Partners!" Griffin looked appalled. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You had this planned, didn't you? How long have you had this planned, Paul?”

Blaisdell smiled, immensely amused. "I was sure that, sooner or later, you'd come to me."

"You planned this?"

"I planned for it. I'll try and get you a private office –"

"With bars on the windows?"

"Blinds. Computer work needs a quiet place. You're going to have to interact with the others, though, Kermit. You can't be a hermit the whole time."

"Really? Watch me." Griffin slammed shut the book and dropped it on the coffee table.

"Two weeks from now, come to the 101st. I'll introduce you to the others. Hopefully by then, all the paperwork will be created and you will exist again."

"I'll use the book as a pillow. What about Feds?" Griffin's face showed dawning hope.

"What do they want from you?”

"A statement about everything that happened in Mexico. I brought a wounded DEA man out of a trap."

Blaisdell stared at him. "You wounded a DEA agent?"

"No.”

Blaisdell sank into his armchair and picked up his coffee cup. "Why don't you start from the beginning, then I'll know how to fix it. Don't leave anything out including your friend, Umbagi,"

***

He had escaped Garrison in the long run. Three long-established connections, Blaisdell had cleared up that loose end. Later, Griffin heard that Blaisdell had even met with Garrison, and they ended up exchanging fishing tips in Montana. Griffin was just glad to have access to his bank accounts again. He refunded Umbagi's money and ignore any messages from his old mercenary friends. Even rebuilt and repainted the Corvair this time green.

A couple of years later, when he was thoroughly conversant in computers, enough to be considered a top hacker, he broke into the DEA personnel files and found out that Warren had recovered from his wounds but had been invalided out with a small pension. Griffin grimaced ruefully. The man didn't deserve that.

Another ton of guilt banished when he picked up the New York Times one day and read an interview with a ballerina named Tina Grant was guest starring with the New York City ballet. She talked about the horror of the night when someone had burned her apartment, and the luck she and her roommate had had to be working instead of being at home. Griffin never tried to get in touch. That part of his life was dead.

Blaisdell never discussed exactly what markers he pooled to get Griffin his small private office in the precinct, his rank and his privacy. Griffin knew that someday he’d have to pay off that debt but that was in future.

A year after Griffin joined the force, Chief Lazzaro was indicted for the murder of Juanito Perezan on Warren’s statement, but the chief didn't live long enough to be arrested. He died in a hail of bullets as the Mexican police, with the assistance of the DEA and the FBI, moved in on Dom Pedro Salazair. The old man was found dead in his swimming pool cut in half with bullets from a submachine gun.

By that time, Griffin was firmly ensconced on the right side of the law, putting miscreants in jail through his modem. He helped supervise the installation of the new system in the office, and “accidently” deleted his own personal files.

Then he went to see his sister and told her he'd become a policeman. She hugged him firmly, and told him to visit often. He promised to.

The one person he forgot to tell Blaisdell tell he was still in contact with was Minette. The woman had been relieved when he turned up alive, and grateful that the Umbagi problem was solved, but she still wanted to see Griffin again. They talked frequently by modem.

As for his fellows in the office, he kept most of them at arms length except for a few he really liked. The sulky young man in the picture, Blaisdell's foster son, Peter Caine, was one of them.

 

PRESENT DAY

Now, Blaisdell was gone, after giving Griffin a new life, and his adopted son was in danger. Griffin watched Peter vanish into the night, and remember vividly the days when he was on the run without anyone to turn to.

Griffin felt the wind being blocked as Kwai Chang Caine stood behind him. "I will help you," Peter's father said softly.

 

"We'll need all the help we can get against Garrison," Griffin said soberly. "I just hope Peter's plan works better than mine ever did."

"What happened to yours?"

"I ran away and became a policeman," Griffin replied. "Peter doesn't have that choice."


End file.
